Ghosts
by Darcy
Summary: Sequel to "Soul Mates." After receiving a mysterious phone call, Spike and Buffy go to L.A. where something unexpected happens. Will Angel help or make things worse? Meanwhile, in N.Y.C., Faith tries to help the troubled new Slayer. *WIP*
1. The Call

GHOSTS

Disclaimer:Most of the characters here belong to Joss Whedon. I don't own them. Would be nice though. ;)

Author's note: This story is AU and begins about a year after "Soul Mates" left off. I highly recommend you read "Soul Mates" first. If not, this story will probably be confusing and leave you with a permanent crease between your brows. 

Acknowledgements: Much thanks to my "oh so very wise" beta reader Saka. You've helped me tremendously!

Chapter 1 – The Call

Patience. Not exactly a quality Spike was known for. Yet there he sat, mouth zipped, fidgeting checked, and feet firmly cemented to the ground. Not a toe did tap. 

Good boy, Spike.

Remember. This vacation's for her.

And he was determined not to spoil it—say or do the wrong thing and ruffle her feathers—like he usually did. 

So there he sat, silently, watching Buffy pack. And bloody hell could she pack!

Spike could swear that every blouse, skirt, dress—all of it—had at one point spent a decent chunk of quality time in her expensive Italian luggage before being yanked and replaced with the next midriff-exposing, white cotton top or dark denim Capri pants in line. 

She was a poltergeist on speed, until finally—she reached the end. Standing next to a crumpled mountain of clothes, she threw up her hands and gave him a look that reminded him of an overindulged little girl.

"I've got nothing to wear!" she complained, then added mischievously, "guess we'll just have to do some shopping when we get there." 

Grimacing, Spike looked at his watch and the whites of his eyes expanded as he realized the time. Time to go.

Still, he was determined to be chivalrous. Biting back the caustic remarks that came to mind, he picked up Buffy's ten-ton suitcase and followed her down the stairs to the car. With each precarious step, he thanked the Powers that Be for his vampire-like strength—a remnant of his past existence.

He then hoisted his hefty cargo into the trunk, slammed it shut, and slipped into the driver's seat, shooting the Slayer a strained smile before starting the engine. 

They were off.

Well, not quite. 

After they'd driven halfway to the airport, Buffy casually looked his way and asked, "Now, you've got the tickets, right?"

His head snapped sideways as if pulled by a lasso.

"Uh...." The shiny black Desoto lurched to a stop.

Sticky palm hit sweaty forehead. He turned the car around.

* * *

Spike searched the main level of his two-story beach house before bounding up the stairs two-by-two and hurrying into his sparsely furnished bedroom. He looked around the room, his head jerking this way and that as if he were front-and-center at a heated tennis match. 

Not on the queen-sized futon bed, or the maple nightstand. Not under the furniture, or…

Ah! He spied them lying on the dresser—in plain view. Funny that despite his eagle-like vision, he'd failed to see them in such an obvious place. But of course he'd had a lot on his mind. Important stuff.

He strode over to the dresser, snatched up the tickets and proceeded to stuff them into the inner breast pocket of his leather coat. Hand still resting over his chest, he stopped. An image, translucent and rippling like hot air rising up from burning pavement, caught his attention. His head swiveled forward and he stared straight ahead—into the mirror.

His eyes narrowed. Strange, for a split-second he'd thought he'd seen something other-worldly—like a specter.

But it was just his reflection.

A hint of a smile crossed his face. Handsome devil, he thought, studying the man in the mirror. He ran his fingers through his tousled brown hair. It'd been about a year now since he'd been able to see more than just empty space when he gazed into a looking glass. The sight of his own image still made him stop, and stare, and marvel…and admire—according to Buffy he'd become a bit vain.

Had it only been a year? Mad rush suddenly forgotten, his brow furrowed as he quickly calculated the exact number of days that he'd been human. Three hundred and seventy-four. Was that it?

He shook his head and then tried to calculate the number of days he'd been a vampire. Too many, he thought. He'd been a vampire for a hundred and twenty-two years. That came out to too many days—and nights—as a bloodthirsty, remorseless killer.

Spike sighed. No looking back, he reminded himself. He'd left the past behind, moved on. He wasn't a monster anymore.

The Slayer had turned him around. And finally, he found himself headed in the right direction. Up. Hopefully.

With both hands, he patted down the front of his coat until he felt something. A small lump in his pocket. He pulled out a black velvet box and gazed at it for a second. Then, almost reverently, he opened it.

The brilliant shard glittered up at him. The setting was simple. Buffy liked simple. But the stone was breathtaking. And it made him catch his breath. He hoped it would cause the Slayer to catch hers. Or perhaps take it away for a second.

He'd carefully planned this event for over a month now. And in his heart, for over a century. A moonlit stroll on a deserted beach: they'd stop and admire the clear night sky, or listen to the tireless murmur of the ocean, he'd squeeze her hand, drop down on one knee, and…

The phone rang.

Bloody Hell! The shrill noise gave him a start.

He picked up the cordless phone in front of him. Just a dial tone.

It rang again. He patted down the front of his coat for a second time. Another lump—a much bigger one this time.

He pulled out his cell phone. Not many people knew this number; just two—only one of whom actually ever called him. And this particular person was downstairs in the car waiting, none too patiently it seemed. Well, he'd taken much too long. She was probably ready to leave without him by now.

He flipped open the phone and cleared his throat, readying himself to be berated by the Slayer.

"Yeah," he said, trying to sound cool and collected. Maybe it would rub off on her.

His eyes narrowed.

"Em?" It was his sister. But she hated using the phone. She much preferred tapping directly into his head—a Wiccan form of 'mental trespassing' that he absolutely detested.

He stood quietly for half a minute, cell phone pressed close to his ear. His shoulders tensed visibly and his jaw tightened.

"Yeah," he said finally, then muttered: "The wankers."

He was silent again for several more seconds as he listened intently to his sister's voice. Tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention one-by-one as he took in her words and noted her uncharacteristic tone. Her voice was tinged with anxiety—and for Emily, who never lost her cool, this meant something was terribly wrong.

"Don't worry," he said, his own voice a bit shaky. "I'll be there in a few hours."

* * *

Buffy sat in the passenger side of the newly restored Desoto. Spike's vintage car was now in mint condition; its black paint gleamed under the mid-day sun. She shifted her position and the smooth leather upholstery seemed to grumble; bare skin revealed by her too-short skirt clung to the seat as if held there by tiny suction cups.

In the last fifteen minutes, her mood had gone from happy excitement, to peevish impatience, to raging annoyance.

Damn, she thought, sticking her head out of the car window and peering up at the former vampire's modern-style beach house, what the hell was taking so long?

Okay, so maybe it was partly her fault for taking a few extra minutes packing, but…

It was her birthday—well, in a couple of days it would be—and she had _so_ looked forward to this vacation for like forever. He'd promised her exotic, black sand beaches. He'd promised her beautiful, tropical sunsets. He'd promised her seven days in paradise—and damn it, there was no way in hell that they were going to miss their plane!

Although the two of them had spent most of their waking hours together during the past year —after all, he wasn't just her boyfriend now, he was also her Watcher—she longed for some one-on-one quality time not spent worrying about killing monsters or saving the world. 

Was that too much to ask?

She thought not.

And he'd delivered. One night, when she was tired and cranky and covered in green goop from a newly deceased slime demon, he'd casually mentioned that he'd talked to a travel agent that day about taking a little trip to Hawaii. Then he pulled out a pamphlet filled with pictures—pretty, colorful ones of a place where she definitely wanted to be.

Needless to say, she'd slimed him—with a big gooey hug.

She glanced at the steering wheel and thought about honking. Should she do it? Time was of the essence here. Time was running low. Time was ticking away. Time was…

She had her hand poised over the horn just as he emerged from the front door.

When she saw his face, she immediately forgot about time, or the lack thereof. His skin, normally tan from his daily sun-basking, appeared almost white. He looked pale, drawn—worried. 

He approached the car and met her gaze. Her expression now mirrored his.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I've got to go to L.A," he said.

"L.A.? Now?"

"Yeah. Emily's there."

"Is she okay?"

"I don't know."


	2. The Living Dead

Chapter 2 - The Living Dead  
  
New York City One month earlier  
  
The city was almost quiet. Almost calm.  
  
A steady flow of cars, a homeless man muttering, a drunken trio singing in the background: to Faith's ears, these sounds and others combined to produce little more than a low murmur. White noise-it could almost lull a baby to sleep.  
  
Sighing, Faith stopped walking and kicked an imaginary pebble on the sidewalk in front of her. She looked up and stared at the sky, which from her vantage point was framed by the tall, looming buildings surrounding her. No stars, no moon, no clouds. All she could see was a dark, murky gray. A dull feeling came over her.  
  
It was lonely being dead.  
  
She'd been living in the city for almost a year now-the city that supposedly never slept. Even at god-awful hours like the present, there was always someone trudging about. At the moment, that someone happened to be herself. But she wasn't trudging.  
  
She was hunting.  
  
Well, she figured as she resumed walking, someone had to do it. New York had a disproportionately large population of vampires. Smart ones, too. They kept their numbers hidden. They blended in well with the living. Heck, most of them had more fashion sense than she'd ever had-even now.  
  
They hung out at the trendiest nightclubs, dined at the finest restaurants. Some of them even had jobs. Many of them were well-to-do. Like that Emily chick. Faith recalled meeting Spike's sister in London. She'd been like them-loaded and sophisticated.  
  
And now in New York, Faith sought out the local vampires. Tracked them down. When she found herself a likely target, she followed the unsuspecting victim around for a few nights, learning their routine, their habits-and getting an idea of their net worth.  
  
Okay, so she wasn't doing this for purely altruistic purposes, but she was doing the city a service. And if she happened to pick up some extra cash, a Rolex watch, a tennis bracelet, or some other valuable item in the process-so be it.  
  
After the money that Giles had given her in London had run out, she'd tried her hand at several jobs-all minimum wage. Giles had given her a new identity and-a fresh start.  
  
She could do anything. Be anyone.  
  
But what was that, really?  
  
Slaying vampires wasn't exactly a skill today's employers were looking for. If she'd been smart, she would've fabricated a glowing resume and wowed interviewers with her impeccable 'qualifications.'  
  
But she couldn't do that.  
  
Funny. Lying had always come naturally to her. One of the few things she actually did well.  
  
But that was before. Before she'd decided to turn her life around; seize the chance she'd been given.  
  
Before she'd died.  
  
Now lying was hard. Especially when it involved answering all sorts of questions about degrees she'd never obtained and past jobs she'd never held.  
  
After a month in the city, she'd ended up bussing tables, washing dishes, and even wrapping presents during the holidays. Her paychecks hadn't exactly been enough to live on, so.  
  
She'd decided to prey on the predators.  
  
Technically, the city already had a Slayer: Hope Mason was the newest girl called up to do the Council's dirty work. But Faith figured that there were enough vamps here to go around. And besides, from what she'd seen, this new girl didn't appear to be much of a fighter.  
  
In fact, she kind of fought like she had a death wish. Faith had seen the signs. The empty look in her eyes, the zombie-like gait, the 'ho-hum' approach to slaying. The girl was clearly 'going through the motions.' It was just a matter of time until she'd get her wish.  
  
Too bad.  
  
Faith bit her lip. Maybe she could help the girl. After all, it was a subject she was familiar with. She'd been there once.  
  
Well, maybe.  
  
But it was risky. Although Faith often shadowed Hope on the girl's nightly patrols, she was always careful to keep her distance-to maintain her anonymity.  
  
The Council believed her dead. She was a ghost. If she wanted to stay alive, she needed to remain a ghost. If they ever discovered the truth, they'd come after her with their so-called 'elite' squad-Assassins.  
  
She was sure of it.  
  
Faith stopped and stared across the street at a popular nightclub. Although it was twenty minutes before closing time, there was still a long line of hopefuls standing in front of the modern, glass and granite building. She surveyed the people in front of the establishment. As she'd expected, her intended victim was not one of them; he never emerged before closing.  
  
Glancing at her watch, she retreated into the shadows of a nearby alley.  
  
* * *  
  
Minutes away, in an overpriced flat on the twenty-fifth floor of a stately Manhattan apartment building, the newest slayer awoke with a start, springing up to a sitting position like a child's pop-up toy. Her hands immediately went to her neck, feeling to make sure that-it wasn't broken.  
  
No, it was just a dream. The dream. Again.  
  
Hope exhaled slowly. Was it relief or disappointment that she felt? She couldn't be sure.  
  
The images still lingered in her mind. Shadows flickering like the erratic, cold lighting of the subway car from her dream. On and off. Again and again. Until.  
  
She recalled the man-or Thing. He hadn't been human. She knew that now. He'd been one of them. Those creatures she now spent her evenings fighting; now that she was a Slayer.  
  
In her dream, he'd smiled, held out his hand and asked her to dance. And she'd gazed into his eyes-clear blue like the sky-and felt herself become weightless. Her feet left the ground as she began to float. Up, up, up. Until she closed her eyes and felt herself come crashing down.  
  
Then, lying on the hard floor of the subway car, she'd looked up at him, seeing him again-this time as he really was. The smile was now a sneer. The eyes now clouded. And she wasn't dancing. She was fighting.  
  
And still, although exchanging blows with a monster, she continued to stare at his face. The even perfection of his features appeared carved from stone.  
  
They continued to battle in slow motion, as if underwater, until the lights went out again. In the darkness, she felt herself trapped in the vampire's cool, vice-like grip. She felt his hands at her throat. His fingers tightening.  
  
The lights came back on and she found herself lying beneath him, his face looming just inches above hers. She looked into his eyes and again was reminded of the sky-clear blue. She felt herself floating again; letting go.  
  
The hands at her throat tightened once more.  
  
And then she'd wake up, feeling scared, but serene; light-headed and shaky.  
  
Shivering, Hope slid out of bed. The sheets felt cool and almost clammy. She went to the window and looked down at the city that, in spite of the late hour, was still full of life.  
  
She decided to go out for a walk-to shake off the dream. She padded over to her closet and pulled out a pair of jeans and a sweater.  
  
Although she knew it wasn't necessary, she dressed herself as quietly as possible. Her efforts though, were more for her own benefit than anyone else's. Her mother was a sound sleeper-compliments of a nightly dose of Valium and vodka. Hope could've marched through the apartment banging a big bass drum and her mother wouldn't have so much as rolled over.  
  
But it gave Hope a sense of normalcy. Of being a regular teenager with a regular mother-one who cared. One who'd notice if her daughter were out late every night, or covered with blood and ashes when she came home.  
  
Sighing, the newest slayer slipped on her sneakers, tiptoed through her living room and carefully unlocked the door. She stepped out into the red- carpeted hallway and felt a chill as a blast from the building's central air conditioning hit her.  
  
The corridor was always too cold. Almost supernaturally so. Hope made her way to the elevator, pressed the down button, then hugged her arms around her chest as she stood waiting.  
  
She recalled the dream and let out a shaky exhale. She pictured the man- the vampire-with his bleached blonde hair and fathomless blue eyes; his sneering smile and cat-like grace.  
  
She reflected on her own struggles and fears. And then thought about peace.  
  
She thought about walking. No, searching. Her heart beat faster.  
  
Searching for him.  
  
* * *  
  
Standing in the dark alley, Faith shifted her weight from left foot to right, rolled her shoulders back a couple of times then bounced lightly on the balls of her feet. God, how she hated waiting!  
  
She glanced down at her watch for the fifth time in the last few minutes. Finally! Three o 'clock.  
  
No more waiting.  
  
She stared across the street and scanned the crowd of predominantly human patrons filing out of the club. Not him. Or him. Not that one. Or.  
  
Ah, that's my boy! Her lips curved upward into a predatory smile. She surveyed his tall, broad-shouldered form; his dark hair, perfect features. He was almost angelic. Or Angel-like. He reminded her of Angel. They could've been brothers.  
  
Faith had watched this particular vampire for almost a week now-longer than she usually did. She'd rather enjoyed stalking him and was almost sad to have to end it tonight. But she would. She was almost out of cash.  
  
The vampire stuck his hands in his dark trench coat and headed down the sidewalk alone. He was always alone.  
  
She had wondered what his story was. She guessed it was complicated. He so reminded her of Buffy's vampire ex-boyfriend. Right down to the whole brooding bit. Of course, he was probably just brooding about having drunk a nasty glass of A negative blood that didn't agree with him or something similar-she doubted it could be anything more. More than likely, he didn't have a soul. Angel was pretty unique that way.  
  
Walking briskly, the vampire headed away from the club. Faith knew the routine by now. He was going to his uptown flat. She didn't have much time. It was just a couple of blocks away. She quickened her pace- planning to catch up to him at the next block-there was an alley on the way that was always pretty deserted, and dark.  
  
She cut the distance between them in half and was quickly gaining. The alley would be coming up soon. She had to move just a little faster.  
  
He stopped.  
  
Faith slowed her approach to almost a standstill. Two small creases formed between her brows as she stared at her prospective prey. There was a girl in front of him, blocking his path. He tried to step around her, but she moved to stop him. He took a couple of steps back and gestured for her to go first. A gentleman vampire.  
  
The girl just stood there. He stepped back and to the side, giving her even more room. And this is when Faith got a clear view of her. She immediately recognized her. Skinny, short, lank brown hair.  
  
Hope Mason.  
  
Damn, Faith hoped the brat slayer wouldn't ruin her plans. The vampire was no good to her dusted. He had to be 'stripped' first-of his belongings. Everything, especially the thick wad of green and white paper rolled up and kept in his coat pocket, would turn to ashes if he were prematurely staked.  
  
Now that just wouldn't do.  
  
Faith gritted her teeth and started walking toward the vampire and Slayer. 


	3. Lost in LA

Chapter 3 - Lost in L.A.  
  
Spike's knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel of the rented Ford Taurus. Inhaling deeply, he attempted to keep his cool as he navigated through heavy traffic. It was six o'clock on the L.A. freeway. Rush hour.  
  
Their flight from Sunnydale had been delayed for several hours. What bloody awful luck! While waiting to board the plane, he'd fidgeted in his seat like a schoolboy with attention deficit disorder. This had made Buffy and other nearby travelers nervous.  
  
"What's going on?" the Slayer had asked.  
  
He'd growled a response. Emily had been strangely cryptic. Annoyingly so. She was supposed to fill him in when he got there.  
  
And now they were moving at a slug-like pace, surrounded by thousands of angry motorists who were rushing home to eat their frozen dinners and watch the evening news. Spike gritted his teeth. Of course they'd only hear about the latest mass murderer terrorizing the suburbs, or corrupt CEO who'd cooked his company's books, leaving its stock worthless.  
  
The former vampire was feeling a tiny bit cynical at the moment.  
  
Sitting next to him, Buffy squinted as she tried to read the road map they'd gotten from the car rental place. It was badly crumpled around the edges from her gripping it too tightly-a sign of her agitation. Her furrowed brow and extended lower lip were further evidence of her troubled state of mind. She turned the map around several times before finally giving up.  
  
"Hope you know where you're going," she muttered. "Don't think I'm gonna be much help in the navigation department." Sighing, she folded the map into a crude square and stuck it on the dash. "You may want to think about adding map reading to my Slayer training," she added.  
  
Breaking his concentration from the freeway ahead of him, Spike glanced over at the Slayer. She reminded him of an inflatable beach toy that had leaked out most of its air. One side of his mouth tugged upwards into a half-smile.  
  
"Don't worry, pet," he said. "Emily told me that there'd be signs. Laid them out somehow-you know, using some of that black mojo of hers."  
  
Buffy looked impressed. "She can do that?"  
  
"Apparently," he replied, returning his attention to the seemingly endless line of cars in front of them.  
  
"Hmm." A look of skepticism crossed the Slayer's face. "If she's such a powerful wiccan and can do all kinds of magic."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Well," Buffy paused again, "why does she need us?"  
  
"Good question." He'd wondered the same thing ever since his sister's call, playing out many different scenarios. She'd mentioned the Council, but had failed to elaborate. Had those grumpy old men found her? And if so, how?  
  
Surely, they couldn't have traced her through him? He'd been very careful whenever he contacted her. They'd spoken in code and he'd never referred to her by name.  
  
But if the Council had found Emily.  
  
Spike knew that the old wankers had witches working for them; covens at their disposal. If they'd tracked Emily down, caught her by surprise, would she have been able to escape?  
  
She was a powerful witch, having practiced magic for over a century, but she did have her vulnerabilities: sunlight, holy water, and of course, a stake through the heart.  
  
Though she was able to compensate somewhat for these weaknesses through magic, she wasn't invincible.  
  
Her real weakness though, in Spike's opinion, was her humanity. What little she had left. She clung to it as an Alzheimer's patient did to his memories, slowly slipping away into fog.  
  
But with humanity came weakness, and feelings one couldn't suppress.  
  
Loneliness, for example.  
  
Up ahead, an exit sign appeared to glow like a Chinese lantern, rousing Spike from his thoughts.  
  
"Ah, here's the exit."  
  
Buffy looked at the sign and frowned. "How do you know?"  
  
Spike turned to the Slayer, eyes narrowed. "Don't you see.?"  
  
Buffy shook her head, confused.  
  
"Emily," he replied softly, "she's leading the way."  
  
Spike then cut across several lanes, nearly colliding with a silver Mercedes and red Cabriolet. Both drivers shot their middle fingers up at him and cursed profusely. Oblivious to the road rage he'd caused, Spike concentrated on the off ramp in front of him. The street sign to the right lit up with neon-like brightness. He turned right and continued going straight, heading for the rolling California hills, which were partly obscured in brownish tinged wisps of smog. To Spike, the smog seemed to glow as if it were radioactive. The soft pulsing light was a beacon, guiding him to their destination.  
  
* * *  
  
The road ahead of them wound up and around the gracefully curving hills. They were getting closer. The surrounding trees appeared fluorescent green and the road shone like polished stone. The signs, trees and street were getting progressively brighter. Soon they would be almost blinding.  
  
Spike squinted as he focused on the road ahead of them. His eyes hurt as if he'd stared at the sun too long. They were now in a very exclusive L.A. suburb. The estates were large, with long driveways, and grounds that reminded him of national parks. The houses themselves were barely visible from the road: huge mansions tucked away behind stately trees and carefully planted shrubbery, peeking through the lacy green foliage.  
  
To his right, a signpost and mailbox shone like a spotlight. The surrounding trees and bushes lit up at full wattage. Spike turned into the long, winding concrete driveway that seemed to gleam almost like gold.  
  
"The yellow brick road," Spike commented with a quick, bitter laugh. "We're off to see Dorothy." He turned to the Slayer, noting the puzzled look on her face.  
  
"The driveway-it's." he started to explain. But his mouth fell open as he looked up at a large, Mediterranean style mansion with white stucco walls and a rust colored roof and trim.  
  
It almost blinded him.  
  
"We're here." He turned off the engine and as it died, the glare from the home quickly faded. He took a deep breath, hoping that they weren't too late.  
  
* * *  
  
Their footsteps echoed through the house. The tentative clip of their shoes on the white and gray marble floors bounced up to the high wood- beamed ceilings, sounding hollow and strangely spectral.  
  
No one appeared to be home. The door had been left wide open. When they had reached it, Buffy had called out from the entryway, but the only response had been her own voice echoing back to them.  
  
Spike had then stepped over the threshold and cautiously looked around. The house was almost entirely white. Its walls and many of its furnishings were devoid of color-only the bright splashes of red on the Asian rug in the foyer and the deep mahogany of the entry table deviated from the color scheme. A vase filled with flowers caught his eye.  
  
Calla lilies. Emily's favorite.  
  
They scoured the first floor, room by room, without coming across anyone. The house was immaculate. Furniture tastefully chosen from all over the world-most in hues of white, cream, and ivory. But in every room, there'd also been dark woods and splashes of red. Spike was reminded of spilt blood on white satin.  
  
They'd headed up the graceful marble staircase, which led up to the second floor. A large crystal chandelier swayed above them, tinkling like a wind chime. Spike gripped the banister, his head craning up to the chandelier.  
  
Strange.  
  
A whisper of wind blew past him, tickling his cheek, as he hurried up the stairs. At the top, he scanned the long banister-lined, corridor overlooking the foyer. At the west end was an open door. Instinctively, Spike knew it would be Emily's. She'd want to enjoy sunset upon awakening.  
  
He strode down the corridor, stopping short at the doorway. Peering in, his eyes told him that the room was empty-devoid of life. Buffy brushed past him and started to look around.  
  
"There doesn't seem to be anyone he-" Already on the other side of the room, she stopped suddenly and looked down. "Wha-"  
  
"What is it?" Spike rushed to her side. His eyes turned down to the spot on the floor that had caught the Slayer's attention. He dropped to his knees, as if forced down.  
  
With shaking fingers, he combed through the pile of gray powder that blended in with the marble floor. He stared at his hand covered in the pale dust, then looked up at Buffy, eyes wide with shock and disbelief.  
  
* * *  
  
Spike sat hunched forward on a king-sized, four-poster bed that seemed almost dwarf-like in the large sleeping chamber. He brushed his hand against the cream-colored chenille bedspread, leaving five brushstrokes of soot.  
  
Buffy sat down and put a comforting arm around his shoulders.  
  
After five minutes of painful silence, she finally spoke.  
  
"We can't be sure she's dead," she said. "Those ashes."  
  
"She's dead," Spike replied. His voice was firm as if he knew what he was saying was true.  
  
"You don't know-"  
  
"No." He inhaled deeply and shrugged off the Slayer's arm. "I do know. She's gone. I can feel it."  
  
"But-"  
  
"Something's happened. Those bleeding Council wankers! They're responsible!" He turned to Buffy, the look on his face showing pure venom- a throwback to his days as a vampire.  
  
Buffy drew back slightly, eyes widening. "Spike, let's not jump to conclusions here. Maybe Giles knows something."  
  
Spike scoffed. "A clueless nit if I ever knew one. I doubt if old Rupert would have even the faintest idea-"  
  
"Maybe," Buffy said softly, then paused, biting her lip.  
  
Spike arched an eyebrow. "Maybe what?"  
  
"Maybe we need to stop for moment. Take a deep breath and get calm."  
  
"I bloody well am ca-"  
  
"We need to calm down, so we can think straight and figure out what happened here."  
  
"I already kno-"  
  
"No you don't, Spike. You're crazy mad-a...and sad right now. I don't blame you. If anything ever happened to Dawn, I don't know what I'd do. But we have to keep our heads. Let's search the house, see if there's anything that can help us figure out what happened here."  
  
"We've already been through the house. There's nothing here."  
  
"Let's go through it again-thoroughly this time. There's got to be something here."  
  
Spike exhaled with frustration. "So you're saying you want to play detective. Look for clues. Is that it?"  
  
Buffy nodded.  
  
"Sorry, luv. Detective work just isn't up my alley. I've already got a pretty good idea of who's responsible here. I say we nail-"  
  
"No. No nailing. Not yet, anyway. We need to look for clues-and if detective work isn't your thing."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Well, then I can think of one person who might be able to help us."  
  
Spike's brow furrowed. "Someone?" He paused and scratched his chin. A look of understanding crept over his face and he scowled at the Slayer. "No bleeding way!"  
  
But Buffy was already reaching for her cell phone.  
  
"I'm calling Angel." 


	4. Surfacing

A/N: Sorry this story is taking so long. I've gotten out of the writing rhythm and am having a hard time getting back into it. Anyway, here are the next two chapters. Also, much thanks to those of you who've left reviews. Your encouragement really helps.  
  
Chapter 4 - Surfacing  
  
Faith squinted at the two figures battling in the dark alley. She was almost there. Just a few more steps.  
  
She had to move fast. Hope Mason was faring surprisingly well against the Angel look-alike. Exceptionally well-for a slayer with a death wish. But then again, Hope's opponent didn't seem to be fighting back.  
  
The younger slayer had started with an off-balanced roundhouse kick to the vampire's solar plexus. She'd landed on her heels, nearly falling backward. Such a mistake could've been costly. But the vampire failed to respond. He stood there as if frozen. This gave Hope time to steady herself and hit the demon with a series of tentative jabs to the jaw, causing his head to jerk back in a staccato-like motion.  
  
He backed away from her, toward Faith, his hands raised to chest level, indicating surrender.  
  
Despite herself, Faith was a little disappointed.  
  
She would've expected more from him.  
  
He was two steps ahead of her. She stepped forward. He stepped back. She had him.  
  
Her arms tightened around his chest. He started to struggle, fighting to get out of her grasp. She held firm until he shifted his weight suddenly, causing both of them to lurch to the side and fall to the ground.  
  
They continued to wrestle on the cement sidewalk. Keeping one arm secured around his chest, Faith lowered her other hand in the vicinity of the vampire's coat pocket. Her hand came into contact with a thick roll of bills. Her fingers tightened around the money and she plucked it out of the vampire's pocket.  
  
'Got it!'  
  
She released her hold on the vampire and sprung to her feet. He leapt up with matching agility. They faced off and she looked into his face, meeting his eyes for the first time.  
  
They were almost black. Sinister. Evil.  
  
Despite herself, Faith took a step back. She stared at the vampire, fully expecting him to attack. But he didn't.  
  
He took off running, disappearing around a street corner.  
  
Surprised, Faith turned to Hope Mason, who was standing on the sidewalk five feet away from her. Clearly, the girl was equally astonished.  
  
Faith wasn't sure if it was the vampire's cowardice or her own actions that caused the young slayer to gawk at her like a retired waitress who'd just seen Elvis. She was guessing that it was the latter.  
  
* * *  
  
"Who are you?" Hope's words sounded braver than she felt. The woman standing in front of her had just taken on a vampire-and would've bested him if he hadn't fled.  
  
"I'm." Faith looked uncertain. Her eyes darted back and forth, and her muscles tensed, giving her the appearance of a cornered animal getting ready to bolt. She glanced at Hope, meeting her stare for a split-second before turning away.  
  
"Who are you?" Hope asked again, adding a threatening tone to her words that almost hid her fear; deep-down the fifteen-year old slayer was shaking.  
  
Faith shifted her weight from side-to-side then squared her shoulders. She scanned their surroundings before settling her gaze back on Hope. Her lips curved up into a tight knowing smile.  
  
"I'm like you," she said finally.  
  
Hope frowned and took a step back. "You're."  
  
"I'm like you," Faith said again. Her stance seemed to relax a bit with the admission and she let out a deep breath. "I'm a Slayer-like you."  
  
"But." But there was only supposed to be one. Besides Buffy Summers-who was a fluke, really-there was only supposed to be one slayer. The Chosen One. And that was her. Or was it?  
  
Faith snorted derisively. "Thought you were the only one?"  
  
"I.They told me."  
  
"They told you wrong. Obviously!"  
  
"But-"  
  
"Slayer lesson number one-" Faith paused and licked her bottom lip. "The Watchers' Council is a bunch of lying, old men who can't be trusted."  
  
Hope was silent, digesting Faith's words. She thought about the man who had first approached her about being the Slayer: Cameron Grey, her Watcher. He was the new vice principal at her high school. That was his cover. But as it turned out, he was, in her opinion, probably one of the best V.P.s that Lincoln High had ever had.  
  
He was smart, understanding, level-headed-and he kind of looked like Ewan Macgregor. She trusted him completely.  
  
"I don't know who you are," Hope said quietly, "But-"  
  
"Listen," Faith said, looking the girl in the eye, "I've been watching you. You're not going to last long-the way your going."  
  
Hope eyed her warily. "What do you mean?"  
  
"The way you fight. Like you wanna die."  
  
Hope shook her head. "I don't-"  
  
"Yeah, you do. It's pretty obvious-you're looking to get killed. It'll happen, too-before you know it. Unless, you do a complete three-sixty."  
  
"You're wr-"  
  
"Look, I know what you're going through. I was there once. But I got over it. I can help you."  
  
Hope took a step back. She knew there was some truth in what this girl was saying, but she didn't need help. She didn't want it.  
  
"I can help you," Faith repeated.  
  
"No." Hope continued backing away, then turned and fled.  
  
* * *  
  
Faith's hands were shaking as she fumbled with her keys and unlocked the door to her apartment.  
  
Stupid! That's what she'd been that night. To let Hope see her. To talk to her. What had she been thinking?  
  
The Council was sure to find out now. Put two and two together.  
  
She took a deep breath. At least she had the cash. Hopefully, it would be enough to get her out of the city and sustain her for a while; until she set up shop somewhere else. There were vampires to rob in every major city in America. She could take her pick.  
  
Faith tossed her keys on the small wooden table next to the door and shrugged off her coat, letting it fall carelessly onto the floor. She pulled the thick wad of bills out of her jeans pocket and dropped herself onto a worn, brown sofa. Carefully, she unfolded the money and began to count it. They were all big bills: mostly hundreds, some fifties, and a few twenties. There had to be at least three thousand dollars there.  
  
Why had the vampire been carrying around so much money?  
  
A small piece of paper wedged between the bills slipped to the floor. Frowning, Faith bent over to retrieve it. She held it up to the light, reading a phone number and a name she'd never heard of before.  
  
She traced the name with her finger, whispering it softly.  
  
"Cameron Grey." 


	5. Peaches and Pudding

Chapter 5 - Peaches and Pudding  
  
The silence was the thick icky kind that stuck to the back of your mouth like molasses. You'd try to swallow it, but it just slid slowly down your throat, leaving a bitter trail. Buffy was desperate to cough it up, spit it out. Spit something out. This silence had to end.  
  
"Tapioca?" she asked, peering from behind the door of the industrial-sized, stainless steel refrigerator. After spending the last few hours searching Emily's mansion for clues, she'd declared it snack time. Dinnertime had long come and gone with no takers. Her stomach was now turned inside out with hunger.  
  
Foraging through Emily's kitchen, she'd found a large supply of blood, but little in terms of food. There was some caviar, a hunk of Brie, a bottle of wine, and a big bowl of homemade tapioca pudding.  
  
A vampire and a man who used to be one sat at opposite sides of a large, rectangular stainless steel table. Both looked at her with blank stares.  
  
"No thanks, pet," the former vampire replied, a tired edge to his voice. "Tapioca was always Em's favorite. Couldn't stand the stuff myself." He turned to the vampire across from him. "Maybe Peaches, here. He looks likes the lumpy pudding type if you ask me."  
  
Angel glanced at Buffy, not meeting her gaze. He hadn't looked her in the eye once since he'd arrived at the house.  
  
"None for me, thanks." His voice was stiff and quiet, and Buffy noted that her ex-boyfriend appeared even more tortured than usual.  
  
Well, what did she expect? This was the first time he'd seen her since she and Spike.  
  
She blew several untamed wisps of hair away from her eyes. Bad idea. Bad. She should never have called Angel. He looked forlorn, like a young boy who'd just found out that there was no Santa. She wanted to give him a bear-sized hug and lay a neat little peck on his forehead.  
  
"Don't worry," she'd say. "Everything's going to be all right." Caring, nurturing Buffy to the rescue.  
  
And then there was Spike. Her gaze went to the man who was now her watcher, her boyfriend and possibly even her soul mate. He looked tired, uneasy-and jealous. His eyes continually shifted from Angel to her and back as if he were looking for something, a connection of some sort that still tied them together.  
  
Of course there wasn't any. Angel had been her first love, true. But it was over. Way over. She'd stopped pining long ago. Sure, she cared about him-loved him even.  
  
But as a friend.  
  
She'd realized a while ago that she was over Angel when, upon mention of his name, she hadn't gotten that awful constricted feeling in her chest she'd always had in the past.  
  
It wasn't meant to be. She'd told herself this so many times, over and over. After a while, she'd finally realized it was true.  
  
* * *  
  
So, Spike thought, trying desperately to maintain the appearance of calm, of casual-of not caring. His eyes moved from Buffy to Angel in a quick, covert motion, he hoped no one noticed. So she'd called Angel. So what?  
  
Did he feel threatened by the overgrown poofter?  
  
Hell no!  
  
He glanced from Buffy to Angel again.  
  
Well.  
  
More eye darting.  
  
Maybe a little.  
  
It was just that. The way the sodding peach boy looked at her-all glazed over with tortured wanting. Mr. Could've Been.  
  
At least Buffy didn't have that look. He was pretty sure, anyway. His eyes rested on the Slayer, who was sitting across from him at the kitchen table eating a bowl of tapioca. She glanced up at him, creamy goo covering her top lip, and held his gaze. She looked uncomfortable, like she was sitting on a pile of pine needles.  
  
Well, it was her fault-for calling Angel. They were doing just fine on their own, before detective boy showed. Spike picked up a napkin from the table and handed it to her, tapping his upper lip with his finger when she shot him a puzzled look.  
  
"You've got some."  
  
The tip of her tongue darted upward, sweeping away nearly all traces of pudding, then she patted the area dry with the napkin.  
  
Angel cleared his throat and two sets of eyes turned to him in unison: one wide and brown, and the other narrowed and blue.  
  
The dark-haired vampire looked at Spike then Buffy, never raising his gaze above cheek level. "I'm going back up to the master bedroom-to make sure we haven't missed anything," he said, his tone business-like.  
  
Spike scowled. "I've already spent well over an hour in that room. Went over it with a fine-toothed comb. There's nothing there."  
  
"Yeah well, it doesn't hurt to be thorough," Angel said, rising from his chair.  
  
"Suit yourself," Spike muttered as the tall vampire disappeared through the kitchen door. "But your wasting you time."  
  
* * *  
  
Now that they were alone again, Spike felt like a mute. He could think of the words to say. Lots of them, really. But when he opened his mouth. Nothing.  
  
He stared at the Slayer, feeling helpless. She glanced at him between tentative spoonfuls of tapioca. Her eyes were large and doe-like, filled with apprehension. The silence was an invisible barrier, separating them like a wall of soundproof plexi-glass.  
  
There were two ways he could approach the situation. He could be the understanding, supportive boyfriend. The perfect gentleman. She was all torn up here. Any idiot could see that. He could be selfless, sacrificing.bleeding stupid.  
  
Or he could take the other road: the one less traveled-except, of course, by him. He often found himself on this route. The one filled with bumps and cracks and large boulders blocking his way. You needed an all-terrain vehicle to travel that road. It was suicide, really.  
  
Spike opened his mouth, pausing for a split-second before speaking.  
  
"Bloody Angel hasn't changed a bit now has he?"  
  
The doe-like eyes narrowed, becoming wolf-like.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Spike leaned back in his chair and smirked ever so slightly.  
  
"I mean, Luv, that he's still the big poof carrying a sappy high school crush on the prom queen."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Her voice was clipped, cold. Spike could almost hear the rumblings of the impending avalanche. 'Okay, now you've done it.'  
  
The smirk wavered a little. "I.uh." The mute was taking over again. "I." His voice sounded tiny.  
  
"Well?" The wolf stared at him, menacing, baring her teeth.  
  
He sat straighter and inhaled deeply through his nostrils. 'Don't back down now,' he told himself. 'Don't forget who's the alpha here.'  
  
There was a chilled silence, giving the former vampire goose bumps. A cold arctic breeze passed between them.  
  
'Alpha male, remember?'  
  
The smirk returned, a little over-exaggerated.  
  
"Oh c'mon, Slayer," the idiot using his voice said, "you can't be that stupid-"  
  
'Balls! Bad choice of words there.'  
  
The she-wolf's eyes flared, causing Spike's mental tail to tuck between his legs.  
  
'Bloody bad choice of words.'  
  
She opened her mouth, ready to attack. He cringed in his seat.  
  
'Bloody, bloody stupid!'  
  
She paused, and her mouth hung open. The angry look left her face, replaced with a new expression. Shock? Surprise? Spike wasn't sure.  
  
"What is it, luv?" His voice was low and apprehensive.  
  
"You're." Her eyes widened and she caught her breath.  
  
"What is it?" He sounded urgent now.  
  
"You're." She reached across the table for his hand. He looked down and saw the cause of her concern. He lifted his hand in front of him, staring straight through it, at the Slayer.  
  
"Oh my god, Buffy," he said, sounding strangely fuzzy and unclear. "What's happening to me?" 


	6. Shades of Grey

Chapter 6 – Shades of Grey

Faith fumbled through the pockets of her leather jacket in search of her cell phone. Both the jacket and the phone had been "acquired" from her last undead victim, a stockbroker turned vampire with sandy-hair and a brilliant smile. 

She recalled the pearl-like teeth he'd flashed her after she'd approached him in a bar. He'd been a perfect gentleman: offering to walk her home, and lending her his coat when she appeared to be cold.

A perfect gentleman. 

Until they passed a dark, deserted alley. Then he'd grabbed her shoulder and pushed her to the ground. Game face on, he'd leered down at her.

They were all the same. Monsters.

It made her "work" a lot easier. She easily jumped to her feet and pulled a stake out of her coat pocket. The vampire's yellow eyes had widened for a half-second. Then they'd narrowed as he grinned for the last time.

Faith flipped open the cell phone and paused for a moment. What was she doing? She should've been on a bus out of the city by now. Why linger?

It was just…

She had a weird feeling. Something about the dark-haired vampire. Something wasn't right.

She walked over to the coffee table and picked up the crumpled slip of paper that was lying amidst the clutter of magazines and discarded wrappers.

Something wasn't right.

She punched in the numbers neatly written under the unfamiliar name. Cameron Grey.

The phone rang and she thought about hanging up.

Not too late.

It rang again and she almost flipped the phone closed.

Then there was a click and a man's voice came on.

"Hello?"

Faith froze. The voice was silky smooth and she thought she detected an accent. English?

There was a pause.

"Hello?" He repeated.

Faith's fingers curled tighter around the phone but she remained silent.

There was a longer pause.

She heard him let out a long, even breath as if he were trying to be patient. He spoke again, his voice quieter this time, almost urgent.

"Hope?" She nearly dropped the phone.

"Hope? Is that you."

Faith snapped the phone shut.

* * *

Hope had been walking for most of the night, barely aware of where she was going. The sky was growing light and people were already on their way to work. She'd be late for school if she didn't hurry.

The doorman to her building nodded to her and smiled knowingly as she entered the marble-floored lobby.

"All-nighter, Miss Mason?" he asked conversationally.

Hope barely glanced at him. She stuck her hands in her pockets and hunched forward.

"Yeah," she replied quietly.

In front of her, the elevator door opened and an older woman with a large poodle stepped out. She glanced at Hope but didn't say anything.

Hope entered the elevator and pressed the button for the twenty-fifth floor.

She thought about skipping school and curling up in bed and going to sleep—maybe permanently.

She was tired and confused. She felt alone.

Still…

_"I'm a Slayer—like you,"_ the stranger had said.

_"Like you."_

She wanted to believe it. Someone like her.

_"I've been watching you…"_

The elevator stopped with a slight lurch and the brass doors in front of her opened. She stepped into the hallway and took out her keys.

_"The way you fight. Like you wanna die…"_

She opened the door to her apartment and stepped inside. It was quiet, as she knew it would be. Her mother was still asleep, blissfully unaware of what was going on in her daughter's life. 

Hope peeked at her mother through the sliver of open door and saw her sprawled out on the king-sized bed, clutching her pillow, satin sheets kicked to the floor.

_"I know what you're going through…"_

Hope withdrew and closed the door.

"Nobody knows," she whispered.

_"I can help you…"_

She entered her room, grabbed some clothes out of her dresser and went to the bathroom. She ran the water and undressed. Steam filled room and she stepped into the shower. 

The water was hot, almost scalding. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the warm vapors.

_"I can help you…"_

She covered her face with her hands and slumped against the shower wall.

_"I can help…"_

She sank to the floor and huddled in the corner. The tiny droplets stung her skin, leaving red blotches.

_"I can…"_

"No," Hope said, head down, hugging her knees to her chest.

_"I…"_

"No," she repeated. "No one can help." She squeezed her hands into fists and pressed them to her cheeks.

"No one." 

* * *

The sound started off soft, then grew louder and clearer. A ringing.

Hope tried to ignore it. She was tired. Sleep. She needed to sleep.

But the ringing wouldn't stop. Her mother had trashed the answering machine months before. She'd flung it against the wall after hearing a message she hadn't liked, one from Hope's father.

Hope buried her head beneath her pillow. It felt damp and cold like a mossy rock beside a stream and her hair clung to her face like seaweed.

The caller was relentless and the ringing continued. Who would be calling at this hour? Who?

Hope glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was four in the afternoon.

Cursing under her breath, she reached for the phone and picked up the receiver. Finally, the ringing halted.

Hope was tempted to hang up or pull the cord from the wall, but the man's voice stopped her.

She held the phone to her ear and listened.

"Hope? Hope are you there? Hope?" said a concerned voice.

Somebody, it seemed, actually cared about her.

She bit her bottom lip before speaking. "Mr. Grey?"

There was a sigh of relief. "Thank God." murmured her Watcher. "Hope, you really had me worried. When you didn't show up for school and then missed our training session…"

"I'm sorry," Hope said. "I guess I overslept. I, uh, had a rough night."

Grey paused before speaking. "Well," he said, his voice now even and composed. "I'm glad you're all right. What happened last night?"

"I, uh," Hope began. She thought about the girl—the Slayer. Could it be true? "I—"

She recalled what the girl had told her: "The Watchers' Council is a bunch of lying, old men who can't be trusted…"

But surely she could trust Mr. Grey…

"Hope?" her Watcher asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Surely…

"Are you still there, Hope?"

"Yeah," Hope answered, "I'm here."

Grey sighed. "Why don't you take the day off. No patrolling tonight, okay? I'll see you tomorrow at our usual time and we can talk then."

Hope nodded absently and mumbled her agreement. "Okay." 

She hung up the phone and curled up into bed.

* * *

The phone rang two, three, four times before the answering machine picked up. For a half-second, Faith thought about leaving a message then slammed the phone shut.

She stood, shoulders slumped in the middle of her studio apartment, angrily chewing on her thumb nail. He wasn't there. She glanced at her watch. But of course he wouldn't be home. It would be mid-morning in London. He'd be at the office.

She picked up her leather address book and looked up the number for the Watchers' Council Headquarters. She'd try Giles there.

* * *

Giles took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. The liquid was barely tepid. He sighed quietly and made a mental note to buy a thermal mug during his lunch break. These Council meetings tended to be rather long.

He stifled a yawn. And boring.

They'd spent over forty-five minutes talking about the upcoming Watchers' retreat. It was going to be in Wiltshire again, near Stonehenge. Not the most original location. But then Watchers weren't exactly known for their originality.

He wondered what they were known for these days and yawned. Dullness?

The most interesting bit of information he'd learned at the meeting so far was that Quentin Travers wouldn't be attending the retreat this year. It was the office scuttlebutt that Travers was headed for early retirement. Ever since his mishandling of the situation with Faith and Emily eleven months before, he'd been in the hot seat.

Giles looked across the table at his long-time colleague. Travers' loyalty to the Council and the cause was without question. But his methods…

Sadly, Travers still didn't feel he'd done anything wrong. The attempt on Faith's life had, in his mind, been a success—and warranted. No, the only failing he'd admitted to was letting Emily Pierce, the witch and vampire, escape. Travers still claimed to have a plan—something in the works—to right the situation.

Giles wondered what that plan might be and who...

He glanced around the long, mahogany table, scanning the faces of the twenty men and women considered the Council's 'top brass'.

He wondered who else knew.

* * *

Forty minutes later, Giles lumbered back to his office, cold coffee mug in hand. As he sat down at his desk, he immediately noticed that the message light on his phone was blinking.

"I wonder who…" he mumbled as he reached for the receiver.

As if on cue, the telephone rang, causing the Watcher's hand to recoil in surprise. He straightened in his seat then answered the telephone.

The voice on the other end was familiar and sounded urgent.

"Giles," Faith hissed, "I've been trying to get a hold of you for over an hour. I—"

"Faith?" Giles cut in. "What it is? Is there something wrong?"

"I don't know." Faith responded. "I… Giles?"

"Yes?"

"Who's Cameron Grey?"


	7. Without a Trace

Chapter 7 - Without a Trace  
  
"Armani.Armani.Armani." Angel mumbled to himself as he sorted through the sea of dark suits that filled the large2 walk-in closet. "Calvin Kl-" He paused and studied a charcoal gray pantsuit. "Nope. Armani." He reached for the next garment and frowned.  
  
"That's funny," he said, pulling out a black trench coat. Judging from the rest of the clothes in the closet, Emily Pierce was a petite woman-probably no taller than Buffy. He held the coat up against him. It appeared to be his size. Definitely too long for Spike's sister.  
  
"Hmmm. Maybe she had a boyfriend." He searched through the pockets and pulled out a roll of money and a crumpled bit of paper with a name and number neatly written on it. "Boys and girls," he said with satisfaction, "I think we've found a clue."  
  
He put the money and note in his pocket and headed downstairs to tell Buffy.  
  
* * *  
  
"Spike?"  
  
Buffy stared at the chair across of from her in disbelief. Just a second before it had been occupied-by Spike. She leaned over the table and waved her hands over the seat, but the only thing left of the former vampire was his jacket slung over the chair's back.  
  
They'd been talking, then he'd started to fade, his body becoming mist- like. He'd looked at her alarmed and confused-and then he was gone-like in a magic show.  
  
Only this hadn't been done with mirrors, slight of hand or trap doors. This wasn't a trick.  
  
But how? Why? Buffy had no idea.  
  
She stood up and scanned the kitchen, turning around and around, making herself dizzy. "Where did you go?" she demanded, her voice shaking. "Where did you go?"  
  
* * *  
  
"I'm right here!" Spike yelled, his face just inches from Buffy's. He tried grabbing her shoulder, but his hand passed right through her. "What the.?" He stared at his hand and then down at his body. He looked transparent, like a hologram.  
  
He turned back to the Slayer. "Buffy!" But she couldn't hear or see him. She was heading for the door, calling Angel.  
  
The dark-haired vampire nearly collided with her as he entered the room.  
  
"What's happened?" he asked, looking around warily and noting the blond Watcher's absence. "Where's Spike?"  
  
"He's gone," the Slayer replied, her eyes glistening with tears. "I don't know what happened. He just." Buffy covered her mouth, suppressing a sob and stared wide-eyed at Angel, who put a comforting arm around her shoulder and guided her to a chair.  
  
"He just disappeared," Buffy continued. "One second he was sitting right there and then he started.fading. Right in front of my eyes."  
  
Angel pulled a chair close to Buffy's and seated himself next to her. Tentatively, he put a hand on top of hers. She looked at him in surprise, but didn't pull her hand away.  
  
Standing behind them, Spike glared at Angel and took a swipe at him. "Get your bloody mitts off my-" But Spike's hand passed ineffectually through the vampire's body and both Angel and Buffy remained completely unaware of his presence.  
  
Angel's brows knitted in thought. "Maybe he was teleported somehow. You said his sister was a witch. Maybe she."  
  
Buffy looked up at him, hopeful. "Maybe."  
  
"Or maybe not!" Spike said angrily. "I'm right here! I didn't go anywhere. Peaches is dead wrong with the teleportation idea. C'mon, Buffy, you've got to feel me here.sense me."  
  
"But the ashes we found earlier," Buffy said, sounding doubtful. "We assumed that they were Emily's."  
  
Angel looked contemplative. "From what you told me, this Emily was pretty powerful. She'd be tough to kill. Those ashes could've been from another vampire maybe.or an ashtray for that matter."  
  
Buffy nodded silently.  
  
"I'm just guessing, of course," Angel continued. "I don't know for sure what happened here, but if he was teleported somewhere, we could probably find him-"  
  
"With a location spell!" Buffy finished, looking up at him with shining eyes.  
  
"Right." Angel smiled at her. "We can go to my place and work on it."  
  
Spike rolled his eyes in irritation. "Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!" he muttered, then stopped to think.  
  
Did location spells work on ghosts? Or whatever it was he'd become.  
  
Maybe the poofter wasn't such a daft bloke after all. If they could at least be aware of his presence. That would be a start, he supposed.  
  
Buffy stood up, then noticed Spike's coat hanging on the chair he'd been sitting on. She walked over to it and ran her fingers over the smooth leather. "We'll find you," she whispered. She picked up the coat, draped it over an arm and carried it with her as she followed Angel out of the room and to his car.  
  
* * *  
  
Standing in the driveway with his arms crossed, Spike watched the taillights of Angel's car fade into the darkness as the vampire and Slayer drove away. He'd tried to go with them, but lacking substance, his body had passed right through the car.  
  
If only they could hear him, he thought angrily. If only 'somebody' could hear him! What he would've given to find somebody that he could talk to!  
  
Without warning, the air at his feet began to stir, gusting around him and sweeping him up, up, up over the treetops toward the midnight sky.  
  
"Oh bloody hell!" Spike said as he found himself being swept away. "Now what?" 


	8. Of Good Intentions

Chapter 8 - Of Good Intentions  
  
"Cameron Grey?" Giles said, sounding surprised. "Why, he's the new Slayer's.er Hope Mason's, Watcher. Why do you ask?"  
  
"I have my reasons," Faith replied, gripping the phone a little tighter. "What do you know about him?"  
  
"Well," Giles said, pausing thoughtfully. "I met him at a Watchers' retreat a while back. A clever chap. Good with computers. Seemed to be a real modernist."  
  
"Modernist?"  
  
"Um, yes. As I recall, he had some interesting ideas for bringing the Watchers' Council into the twenty-first century. Even had a few projects on the side that he'd financed with his own money. A comprehensive Watcher database, for one-"  
  
"You mean there isn't one already?"  
  
"Lord no."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Yes, well, as I was saying, he'd financed these projects with his own money. His family is rather wealthy."  
  
"I see." Faith thought about the three-thousand dollars she'd taken from the dark-haired vampire.  
  
"The Grey's happen to own an auction house in London. Over the years, they've been instrumental in acquiring many rare artifacts for the Council archives."  
  
"Hmmm. This is all really interesting." Faith bit her bottom lip, "but what I really wanna know is if he's."  
  
"If he's what?"  
  
"Evil."  
  
"I.I wouldn't think so."  
  
Faith snorted. "Not like it never happens. Remember that Watcher I had-"  
  
"Gwendolyn Post. But that was different. Believe me, Cameron Grey is Hope's Council appointed Watcher. He has excellent credentials. I don't think there's anything to worry about."  
  
"I'm not so sure." Faith hesitated, then went on to tell Giles about how she'd found the note with Grey's telephone number in the roll of bills lifted from the dark-haired vampire. "I'm not sure about what's going on," she said, "but you've gotta admit, something's fishy here."  
  
Giles agreed. "I'll look into this," he said. "Until then, let's not jump to conclusions just yet."  
  
He was about to hang up when Faith stopped him. Hesitantly, she told him about her run in with Hope.  
  
"I.I told her." she said. "I told her I was a Slayer."  
  
Giles inhaled sharply. "You didn't."  
  
"Yeah, I did. Call me crazy, but I thought I could help her somehow. The girl's a walking time bomb-sound remotely familiar? I just thought." Faith's voice trailed off . "But she didn't want my help, and now she knows. I figure it won't take long for the word to get out. She'll tell her Watcher. He'll alert the boys in London. They'll figure out it's me and then send out the goon squad. I probably should've skipped town, but."  
  
"You were worried about her."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Well, perhaps the Council won't figure it out-that you're still alive. And perhaps."  
  
"Perhaps what?"  
  
"I don't want to raise false hope, but I've perceived a change, albeit a gradual one, in the Council-an evolution. The old school. it seems to be dying out. New Watchers are rising to prominence, bringing with them new ideas. There's been talk of Travers being forced into retirement. His actions-ordering your assassination-have caused dissention among the Council members. Many feel that you were wronged."  
  
"You think that maybe someday-I could come out of hiding?"  
  
"I do."  
  
* * *  
  
In a luminescent ten-by-ten cubicle of blue light located in a luxurious loft apartment-turned-training room, she stood poised, a fifty-pound battle- axe in hand. Waiting.  
  
"Who will it be today, Hope?" asked her Watcher, sitting several yards away from her. He surveyed the computer screen in front of him and tapped the tab button several times. Images of various demons briefly flashed on the monitor. "How about a Fyarl?"  
  
Hope glanced at Grey and shook her head. "Nobody hard, okay. I'm tired of getting my ass kicked by a stupid simulation."  
  
"Ah." Grey tabbed several more times and stopped on the image of an ordinary-looking vampire. "Let's just go with a vampire then-one fresh from the grave."  
  
Hope nodded. "Fine."  
  
Grey hit "enter" and a vampire of medium stature, wearing a brown tweed suit materialized in front of her. He snarled at her, all yellow eyes and pointy teeth, and took a swipe at her midsection. Hope backpedaled out of the way then swung her axe at the vampire's head, missing by almost a foot.  
  
The vampire growled and advanced on her, grabbing for the axe. Hope retreated, almost to the edge of the wall of light. She shifted the axe out of the vampire's reach, barely maintaining her balance. The simulated demon then lunged for her, successfully knocking her out of the computer- generated arena. Hope fell down hard on her backside as the cubicle of light and vampire's image disappeared.  
  
Hope arose to her feet, cursing. "I thought you said he was fresh from the grave! That guy had to have at least a level four-"  
  
"No. He was only a level one vampire. We can't get much lower than that, unless you want to fight simulated grandmothers."  
  
"Well, I still say-"  
  
"Hope, maybe we should work on your concentration. Have you been doing the meditation exercises I taught you?"  
  
Hope walked over to where her Watcher was sitting and sank down into the black leather chair next to his. "What's the point?" she asked.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"I said what's the point. I'm no good at this Slayer stuff. You know it as well as I do."  
  
"Hope-"  
  
"I don't know what idiot upstairs decided that I would be the champion of champions, the defender of good, the blah, blah, blah, whatever bull story they give you, but I think they made a mistake."  
  
"There's no mis-"  
  
"Every night I go out there, I get this close to becoming urban road kill. It's scary. But you know what's even scarier?"  
  
Grey shook his head.  
  
"What's even scarier is that sometimes I think that I'd be better off." Hope's voice became low. A whisper. "I just want it to be over." She turned to her Watcher and looked him directly in the eyes. "I can't do this."  
  
Grey's brows furrowed. "Hope, you know that you just can't stop being what you are. You know that you're-"  
  
"What? The only one?"  
  
"Yes. Except for Buffy Summers, of course-"  
  
"But you're wrong. There're more Slayers out there. I know it. I met one."  
  
"That's impossible."  
  
"No. It's true. I ran into her last night. She was strong like me. She said.she said she was a Slayer."  
  
"She was lying. Probably a vampire playing with your head."  
  
"I don't think so. Something about her." Hope frowned. "She said she'd been watching me. That she knew what I was going through. She said she wanted to help me."  
  
Grey's eyes narrowed. "What did this 'Slayer' look like?"  
  
"Um. Brown hair. Kind of wavy. Brown eyes. A little taller than me."  
  
Grey turned to his computer and typed furiously for several seconds. A girl's image appeared on the screen. Hope glanced over his shoulder and her eyes widened.  
  
"That's her," she said, staring at what looked like a police mug shot. "That's the girl I met last night."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Positive." 


	9. Blown Away

Chapter 9 – Blown Away

He felt a little like Dorothy, riding the skies on a tornado. The winds swirled about him, disorienting him. The noise droned around and through him—maddening, like a thousand random voices: crying, whispering, sighing.

He'd lost track of how long he'd been hurtling through the air, blowing through clouds, mountains, airplanes and anything else that came in his path. The sensation of passing through solid matter was strange and unsettling to him and further highlighted the question: What was he?

Was he a ghost? And if so—was he dead?

No. He couldn't be dead. He refused to be. 

Spike thought of Buffy. The Slayer was probably all torn up worrying about him. She and Angel would probably be working on a location spell by now. 

_Bloody Angel._

The sodding poof had better keep his paws off Buffy. Spike had seen the soulful longing in the vampire's eyes, the tentative hand reaching for hers.

He trusted Buffy, but the thought of her and Angel thrown together—the tragic, former lovers. She: grieving and vulnerable; he: supportive and selfless.

It just about made him sick.

If only she could see him—hear him. He had to get through to her. But how? She hadn't been able to hear him when he was standing right next to her, yelling in her ear. How could he get through to her now? 

Oh how he wished he could talk to her. Hell, talk to anyone for the matter.

Was there anyone out there that could hear him?

* * *

Buffy glanced around the lobby of the old hotel that was now the home of Angel Investigations. The room was imposing with twenty-foot ceilings, ornate architectural details and a polished stone floor. Angel ushered her on toward his office, but Buffy lingered by the reception desk, running her fingers over the smooth marble. She was reminded of the mansion the vampire had once inhabited back in Sunnydale.

"This place," she remarked with a slight smile as she turned to Angel, "is definitely you."

"You think?" Angel asked, raising an eyebrow.

Buffy nodded. "Definitely has that mausoleum feel." She noticed the hurt expression that crossed his face. "But I like it," she quickly added.

"Well, the rent's reasonable and it can house a fair amount of people," Angel explained. "There's a room upstairs you can use…"

"That'd be great," Buffy replied. "But first," she absently stroked the leather coat that was slung over her arm, "we'd better do the location spell."

"Right." Angel led the Slayer to his office and offered her a seat. He then shuffled around the room, first looking for a spell book and then the appropriate items required to perform a location spell.

After Angel had gathered all that he needed, he sat at his desk and hunched over the well-worn volume.  Buffy looked at him skeptically.

"Aren't you going to get _someone else_ to do the spell?" she asked. "Maybe someone who knows how to do magic?"

Angel shook his head. "Everyone's either asleep or out. I've done location spells before. There's no need to—"

"But, if it doesn't work, you'll get someone else to do it, right?"

"Of course, but I really don't think that'll be necessary."

* * *

Loren sat in front of the world atlas and shook his head. "Well, it looks like we're all out of powder." He glanced down at the discarded maps of L.A., California and the U.S. lying on the floor and shrugged. "And we've just about tried every location spell I know—well the only one I know, but we've tried it like seven different ways and nada, zippo, zilch." Sighing, the green-skinned demon turned to Angel then Buffy. "I don't think this Spike person is out there."

* * *

The wind had finally begun to subside. Spike could feel himself descending, slowly at first, then faster and faster until… He'd landed. But where?

Spike looked around. It was still night; moonlight illuminated the gravestones surrounding him. Overgrown by weeds, only the top halves could be seen: some cracked, others tilted at odd angles.

Spike noticed a statue several yards away. Beneath the full moon, it appeared almost white—glowing and pure. An angel, with outstretched wings, bowed head, and hands placed together in front of her in prayer.

Spike looked up at the angel's face; eyes closed, expression serene, it beckoned him. He walked over to the statue and held his hand out towards it, as if to touch it. But he hesitated, knowing he couldn't. His fingers would only pass through it.

He curled his hand into a fist and drew it back, dropping his arm to his side. 

So, he thought bitterly, was this to be his final place of unrest? His haunt?

He supposed it was appropriate. Spooks usually haunted graveyards, didn't they? Perhaps it wasn't so bad. He could make some ghost friends to hang out with—like Casper and such, eh? But how did spirits pass the time? They couldn't exactly drink beer, munch on blooming onions and play kitten poker, could they? 

What did they do?

Did they use their imaginations? Eat pretend blooming onions while drinking pretend beer, playing pretend kitten poker with pretend kittens and pretend cards. He supposed he should just make the best—

Oh bloody hell!

Who was he kidding? He wasn't a purple dinosaur.

And besides, one couldn't pretend Buffy. Not really.

He closed his eyes. He could picture her golden hair, her warm brown eyes, her smooth white skin. He could picture her smile and hear her laugh…

But it wasn't enough. Not nearly. Not for him.

He missed her, and it hurt—not knowing if he'd ever see her again. Ever be with her. Touch her.

Sighing, he stuck his hands in his pockets and began to wander the graveyard as he supposed spooks typically did. He felt alone. If only there were someone here he could talk to…

And then he heard it.

The soft tinkling of laughter. Delicate, like a silver spoon lightly tickling the edges of a crystal glass.  A humming followed, soft and tuneless.

And it was getting louder. Coming closer.

A moment later, he saw her. Walking with a slight spring in her step, like a little girl coming home from ballet class, practicing a tondue here or a pirouette there. She laughed again, then turned suddenly toward him and stared straight at him.

Her half glazed eyes focused on the space he occupied as if she saw him. He caught his breath. Could she? Did she? See him?

She took a tentative step towards him and smiled as if she'd run into an old friend.

"I see you," she sang, pointing a slim finger in his direction. "You're like a mountain mist, but you're there—lingering in the air, you are." She walked right up to him and waved her arms in the space he occupied, frowning. "My hands go right through you…but I sense you. You're here, aren't you?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't—from shock.

"You're here aren't you, my Spike?"

  



	10. Looking for Trouble

Chapter 10 – Looking for Trouble

She should've stayed in her apartment and laid low—like Giles had told her. But for Faith, sitting around in her crummy studio with its paper-thin walls and bickering neighbors, its peeling wallpaper and noisy plumbing, and not to mention the roaches…

No. She couldn't do that

Instead, she'd devised a plan: to find the dark-haired vampire, ask a few questions, and beat the crap out of him if necessary. Just what was his connection to Hope's Watcher? And what game were they playing? Faith was determined to get some answers.

At a little past midnight, Faith was on her way to the place she'd discovered was the vampire's favorite hangout—the club she'd seen him exit the previous night. Stopping as she caught her spiked heel in a drainage grate, she glanced at her reflection in a store window. 

She looked different than she usually did, in a clingy wine colored dress with a low v-neckline and a feminine, bias-cut skirt. Her hair cascaded around her face in carefully arranged ringlets; dark makeup accentuated her eyes and lips, contrasting with her pale skin. The small black velvet handbag hanging from her shoulder was just big enough to hold her wooden stake.

Faith ran her hands down the sides of her dress and nodded approvingly.

She'd blend in well with the young, fashionable crowd that hung out at the upscale nightclub. Hopefully, she'd go unnoticed.

* * * 

As she wove through the hazy nightclub for the third time, Faith craned her neck, trying to see over the heads of writhing, gyrating dancers. The packed room was dark—except for the strobe lights that occasionally flashed in her eyes, blinding her. 

She'd just started to rethink her whole game plan when she spotted her quarry standing in a corner, talking to a man in a dark suit. He hadn't seen her yet and Faith started toward him, carving her way through the crowd.

She was less than three feet away when he looked up and stared at her. His eyes narrowed as he nodded an acknowledgement then nudged his companion and gestured in her direction.

The vampire's companion turned toward Faith. He was tall, and handsomely clean-cut, with short cropped, light brown hair. His eyes matched his slate gray suit and looked at her with a mixture of surprise and recognition.

"So she really _is_ alive," the man in the suit murmured as his hand disappeared into his coat pocket.

Confused, Faith stared at the stranger, who seemed to recognize her. "Who…?" She then glanced at the vampire, suddenly remembering her stake. She reached into her handbag, but was too late.

The man in the gray suit drew out a rod, no bigger than a pen. quickly grazing her shoulder. She heard a crackling sound, and felt a sharp biting pain, then staggered backwards, colliding with the vampire and feeling his strong arms come up to catch her as she lost consciousness.

* * *

The first thing she saw upon waking was the man in the gray suit. Only now, he'd shed the coat and looked decidedly less formal in his rumpled and half-tucked white dress shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His gray eyes sharpened as they caught hers.

"She awakes," he said softly. His accented voice was low and vaguely familiar. 

Faith attempted to sit up, but found she was tied to a bed. Straining against the ropes, she scanned her surroundings, noting that she appeared to be in a dimly-lit bedroom with sleek, expensive-looking furniture. All of the window shades were drawn down and slivers of light peeked out from the edges.

Her keeper sat in a chair a couple of feet away from the bed. She immediately noticed the pen-like rod in his shirt pocket.

"Where am I?" she demanded, still struggling with her restraints.

The man looked at her thoughtfully, rubbing the five o'clock shadow on his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "You're at my place," he replied as if it should have been obvious. 

"And you are…?" There was a challenge in her voice.

The man arched an eyebrow. "I'm Cameron Grey."

Realization sunk in. "Hope's Watcher." 

"Yes."

Faith swallowed hard in an attempt to dispel bitter taste from her mouth. "So I guess she told you…about me…"

Grey nodded. "Yes. I didn't believe her at first. She told me another Slayer had approached her…offered to help her… I thought it was just a vampire or demon, playing with her head. But then she recognized your picture—the one in the police database…" His eyes flickered over Faith's body, then rested on her face. "That mug shot really doesn't do you justice."

Faith turned away from him. "So what are you going to do with me?"

Gray paused, rose from his chair and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. He turned to face the large dresser mirror opposite the bed and studied Faith's reflection in it. "That's a good question," he murmured and let out a slow, even breath. "The world believes you dead. I suppose I should call Travers…"

The name gave Faith a chill. "No. Don't. Please, not him."

He turned back to her abruptly. "Who then?" 

"Giles," she breathed. "Call Rupert Giles…"


	11. On a Whim

Chapter 11 – On a Whim

"Drusilla?"

Her eyes widened and a broad smile spread over her face. "Oooh, I was right. It is you," she squealed, bouncing on her tip toes and clapping her hands together with delight. Her expression then quickly turned to a pout. "But what's happened to you? You're all fuzzy and transparent, just wisps of nothing, shimmering in the darkness."

"You can see me?"

"Of course I can." Her eyes narrowed and she started grasping at the air in front of her, her hands opening and closing in quick, bird-like motions. "I see you plain as night. But I can't touch you. My hands pass right through you as if you weren't really here."

"But Buffy, Angel—neither of them could see me…"

Drusilla laughed. "Hah!  They don't see like _I _do, now do they, my Spike?"

"Right," he breathed, "your special gift…your second sight."

"Yes," she closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples, "Hmm, I see you and your little... Had a bit of a tiff, did we? Oooh, and I see you going poof on her."  Drusilla smiled with satisfaction.  "And I see her now. Poor little girl. So sad…"

"What do you see?"

"She's searching for you. But it's no good. It's too bad she doesn't see like I do." Drusilla opened her eyes and sneered. "Ah well, at least she has Angel…"

* * *

Her look said it all.

Withering under the Slayer's stare, Lorne turned to Angel who was seated next to her. "I—I don't know what else to say," the green demon said, "her friend's just not out there. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but I think we're pretty safe to assume the worst here."

"No!" Buffy spat, glaring at Lorne. "Try another spell." She looked to Angel. "Or get someone else to do one."

"Buffy," Angel said gently, "I don't think another location spell will give you the answer you want. No spell will. At this point, we really don't know what happened to Spike, but I think…" He glanced at Lorne, who nodded. "I think he's gone."

"I'll call Wil—"

"No." Angel took Buffy's hands in his and looked her in the eyes. "At least not tonight. It's late. You need to get some rest."

"I can't rest. Not now. We have to find Spike. We—"

"Just lie down for an hour," Angel urged.  He stood up and pulled her to her feet. "Come on, I'll show you to your room."

Buffy gazed up at Angel, searching. "Do you really think he's gone?"

Angel stared back at her, silent, then slowly nodded.  "I do," he said finally.  Gently, he put his arm around the stunned Slayer's shoulders.  She relaxed against him and he gave her a squeeze.  

"C'mon, let's go upstairs," he murmured, leading her out of the office and up the stairs to the spare bedroom.

* * *

"So what happened to me?"

Drusilla shrugged. "I haven't the foggiest."

"But you said you saw…"

"Yes, but I can't explain it any more than your Slayer can—and she was there. I'm not omnipotent, you know."

"But try…see…what happened to me!"

"Oh, all right," she shut her eyes tight and pressed two fingers to each temple, "hmm…"

"What is it?"

"I see someone—a woman—who can help you…"

"Yes?"

"But the image is faint. I see long dark hair…dark eyes…"

"Who is she?"

"I don't know. But I sense power in her…great power."

Spike thought of his sister. Emily? Could it be?

"What else can you tell me?" he asked.

Eyes still clenched shut, Drusilla pursed her lips and focused on the image floating in the dark cavities of her mind. But it eluded her and vanished into the blackness.

Her eyes opened. "There's no more."

"But—"

"There's no more, Spike."

"But what do I do now?"

Drusilla's expression was now bored. "You leave," she said coldly. "I grow tired of this chitter-chatter with non-beings."

"But—"

"Leave, I said!" She fanned the space he occupied with her hand as if she were trying to dispel a foul odor. "Go! Click your little heels together and leave…"

"You mean like Dorothy?"

She nodded. "Yes, and her little dog, Toto, too."

"But…how?"

Drusilla exhaled irritably. "I knew this spook once. He was quite enamored with me, actually. He told me that the way his kind got around was by…"

"Yeah?"

"By whims and wishes."

"Really?"

"Yes. Now, isn't there somewhere _else_ you'd rather be. Someone _else_ you'd rather be with?"

"Well, yeah…"

"Then go. Whim yourself away. Just do it."

Spike thought of Buffy. "Just whim myself you say…"

"Yes. Now go."

_Whim. Whim. Whim._ He shut his eyes. _Buffy. Buffy. Buffy. Wherever you are—that's where I want to be…_

And just like that, the winds began to swirl about him, lifting him up higher and higher. He glanced down at Drusilla, now twenty feet below. Her arms were outstretched and her angular face pointed to the sky. She was smiling.

"Good-bye, my Spike."

He waved. "Good-bye."

* * * 

Rest. He expected her to rest. Buffy shifted around fitfully on the twin-sized bed. Oh, Angel meant well. He really did. But sometimes she had to agree with Spike and his opinions regarding the souled vampire.

Sometimes Angel was a bit…bent.

Like how could she possibly rest at a time like this? Her boyfriend had just disappeared, no vanished, no disintegrated for no apparent reason right before her eyes. She'd never seen anything like it. In all her years as the Slayer—she'd seen demons dust, and explode, occasionally implode, or melt into a pool of slime, but not…this.

And all she could do about it was—rest. She stared up at the ceiling and studied a large spider hanging out in the corner. 

What happened to you, Spike?

She turned on her side. Spike's leather coat, hanging from the back of a chair near the door caught her attention.

Oh Spike.

Sighing, she sat upright, slid off the bed and padded barefoot over to the chair. She picked up Spike's coat and put it on, savoring its buttery feel and his scent, faint but lingering, mixed in with the smell of leather. Absently, she stuck her hands in his pockets.

They weren't empty.

She pulled out a small, black velvet box and stared at it for several seconds. Her hands shook as she opened it.

A diamond engagement ring.

Beautiful. Perfect.

She didn't breathe for several heartbeats. Then she began to cry.

* * *

Sitting alone in his office, Angel pulled out the slip of paper he'd found at Emily's mansion. With all the excitement after Spike's vanishing act, he'd almost forgotten about it. On it was a man's name with a telephone number.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered as he dialed. It rang several times before a woman answered.

"H—hello?" She sounded tentative.

"I'm calling for a…" He glanced at the slip of paper. "Cameron Grey."

There was a pause. "He's not here," the woman said finally. Angel frowned. There was something familiar about her voice.

"Is there another number where I could reach him? It's urgent that I talk to him."

"He's…" she began, then, "who is this?"

"I'm sorry, my name's Angel. I'm a private investigator in L.A."

There were several seconds of silence before the woman spoke.

"Angel?"

"Yes…?"

"It's me…"

Me. His brain worked in overdrive, running the many possibilities of who "me" could be until one name clicked. But it was impossible. She was dead…

He opened his mouth, but she spoke first.

"It's Faith."


	12. Restless Spirits

 SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1Chapter 12 – Restless Spirits

"Faith…?" Angel said, stunned.

"Surprised?"

"Um, yeah…I thought you were—"

"Dead?  No.  I pulled a Buffy. You know—died, but came back."

"R…right."

"So, why are you looking for Cam?"

"Cam?  Oh, uh, you mean—Cameron Grey.  I uh…it's just that…uh…  Where is he anyway?"

"He's at the retreat.  Left a few days ago.  I'm sort of apartment-sitting."

"Retreat?"

"Yeah, the annual Watchers' retreat.  I hear Giles actually got invited to go this year…"

* * *

 "Oh why did I come to this thing?" Giles muttered as he sat alone on a scratchy wool blanket, ten feet away from the rest of the group.

Wistfully, he glanced over at the other Watchers sitting around the evening bonfire, seemingly having a good time.  But Giles was too nervous to think about fun.  He had a presentation to give in the morning.

_Damn that Cameron Grey!  _

It was all that young Watcher's fault.  If Grey hadn't been so persuasive, convincing Giles less than two weeks earlier—to speak at the retreat…

Sighing, Giles fumbled with a stack of color-coded index cards that he'd prepared a few days earlier.  If only they'd asked him to talk about some other subject—say, trans-dimensional portals, ancient demi-gods, or even Slayer P.M.S. and how to deal with it—then he _might _have been able to speak competently.

But no, his topic was entirely different and just thinking about it gave him polliwogs.

Squinting, he held a mint green card up to eye level and read,  "Habit number one—be proactive…"

The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People was not a subject most Watchers were familiar with—Giles included.  Originally, Grey had intended for Stephen Covey to speak in person at the retreat, but sadly, Mr. Covey had been otherwise engaged.  Thus, Giles had been a last minute replacement.

He shuffled through the stack and pulled out a second card, this one salmon pink.  "Er, habit number two—"

"Rupert!"  Looking casually elegant in khaki slacks and a Ralph Lauren navy blue sweater, Cameron Grey dropped down next to Giles.  "How are the Seven Habits coming?"

Giles forced a smile and looked at Grey with bewilderment.  "I…uh—"

"Oh, I know you'll be fine.  Better than fine.  You'll be superb.  You'll blow them away.  You know in all the years this organization has existed, not once have we ever considered proper management training for our people.  I feel it's simply shocking that I'm the only Watcher here with an M.B.A."

"Yes, well, perhaps—"

"Oh, and by the way," Grey lowered his voice, "I've heard some rumblings about that Spike fellow and his charge…"

"Buffy."

"Yes.  There's been a great deal of gossip about his absence here—that he's skipped off to Hawaii with her and that he's been _dating her for some time now."_

"Yes, well…" Giles looked away uncomfortably.

"Is it true?"

"I—I'm…afraid so."

"Indeed."  Grey looked thoughtful.  "Then he's setting a precedent, isn't he?  Although, I daresay that it's not necessarily a bad one…"

Giles was silent for a moment then frowned.  "Good God man, you're not thinking of…but she's only fifteen!"

"Don't be ridiculous!"  Grey laughed.  "I wouldn't dream of…that.  No, I was thinking of someone else…"

"Ah."  Giles smiled.  "I think I understand."

"Yes.  Well, you'd be blind if you didn't." Grey added, amused.  His voice then grew softer, serious.  "Rupert?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm glad…that it was you I called…last month…and not…"

Giles nodded.  "You did the right thing."

* * *

"You sound good."

"Thanks.  I guess I'm getting there."

"And this Cameron fellow…"

"He's helped me out—a lot.  And I think…I've helped him back."

"How so?"

"Well, with training Hope and patrolling, you know, stuff like that.  The kid was a mess…but I think she's getting better."

"I'm glad."

"I am too.  I think…for the first time in my life…I've got a real purpose, you know.  I'm not just wasted space."

"You never were, Faith—"

"You're a terrible liar, Angel."

The vampire smiled.

"But getting back to why you called.  How did you get this number?  And why are you looking for Cam?"

"I, uh, actually found his name and number in the pocket of a black trench coat, but I've no idea who the coat belongs to—"

"I do."

"Really?"

"Yeah.  Black trench?  It's got to be Dominick's.  He works for Cam, but he's gone missing.  He's supposed to check in every night, only he hasn't, not for a couple of days now…"

* * *

Outside the hotel, Spike levitated in front of a third floor window, peering in at the Slayer who lay, wrapped in his leather coat, asleep.  Dru had been right.  He really could whim himself to wherever he wanted to be.  And the winds had brought him here. 

Taking pause, he noticed the layer of grime that appeared to seal the window shut.  __

_Not a problem.   He leaned forward and fell through the glass, into the room._

Inside, he heard Buffy moan softly and saw her turn over.  Spike stopped.  Did she sense him?

He moved over to the bed and stared down at her, immediately noticing her eyelids fluttering back and forth.

"Ah, dreaming about me, pet?" TC \l1 "

And as if in response, she murmured his name.  Her brow then furrowed and she turned away from him.

Transfixed, he sat down on the bed, admiring her hair, spread out over the pillow like a gilded fan.  He'd always loved it so.  The way it shimmered and almost glowed.  He stretched his hand towards her, but stopped himself.  He so wanted to touch her; feel her warmth.  

But he couldn't.

And it was torture.  Bitterly, he wondered if he were better off somewhere else, away from her.

Then she shifted again, toward him, once more murmuring his name.  Slowly, he lay down alongside her, stretching out, toe to toe, his face to hers.  He closed his eyes.

"Sleep, luv," he whispered.  "Sleep."

A restless spirit, he'd traveled many miles that night, but now, nestled close to the woman he loved, he'd found—at least temporarily—peace.


	13. Weakness

Chapter 13 – Weakness

"Spike."

She awoke with his name on her lips, her voice eager and hopeful.  She could feel him watching her.  He'd come back.  He'd found her.  He was here.  She opened her eyes, expecting to see steely blue staring back at her, but instead saw dark brown.

Angel.

The vampire was perched on the edge of the tiny bed, looking down at her.  She saw a flash of anguish in his face, but he buried it quickly, and his expression became unreadable.  He withdrew the hand, which had been resting next to hers, and placed it in his lap.  The sleep, the dream, the hope slipped away from her as she sat up, modestly gripping the sheet to her chest to cover what her sheer nightgown did not. She couldn't help feeling somehow violated.  He'd been watching her sleep. 

"Buffy," Angel began.  He looked away, ashamed.  "I came up here to talk to you.  I knocked, but you didn't answer.  I was worried, so..."

She should've been mad.  He had no right.  He shouldn't be in here, in her room, on her bed.  She should've been, but she wasn't.  Angel was her friend and she needed one badly.

"It's okay," she said finally, her voice quiet.  She managed a smile and reached for his hand.  "Angel, I…"

He turned back to her, his eyes meeting hers.  The anguish was still there, still buried, but barely hidden beneath the surface.  They were both in pain.  That much was clear.  But was she the cause of his?  Did he still love her after all this time?  She looked deep inside herself and found no trace of the feelings _she_ had once had for _him_.  Oh, she still had feelings.  Warm ones.  But not the fiery ones that had once burned her, charring her inside.  Amazingly, all traces, all scars, all the hurt was now gone.  Spike had done that.  He'd been the one to finally heal her.

She squeezed his hand.  "I'm grateful for everything you've done for me—and Spike."

Angel flinched at the former vampire's name, but quickly recovered.  He smiled, and it almost seemed genuine.  "Your welcome," he said in a way that broke her heart.

There was an awkward silence as neither of them could find words to say.  Finally, Angel cleared his throat.  "Buffy, the reason I came up here was…I came to tell you, I think I may have stumbled onto something."  He explained to her about the coat he'd found in Emily's closet, the slip of paper in the pocket, and of calling the number written on the paper.  He told her about Faith.

"Faith's alive?"  She was stunned.

"She's in New York," he replied.  "For the past month, she's been working with Hope Mason and her Watcher."

"But what's her connection…to Emily?"

"Well, according to Faith, Cameron Grey, Hope's Watcher, has been working on a special assignment for Quentin Travers to locate Emily."

"And destroy her?"

"Yes."

Buffy frowned.  "I still don't understand.  I mean, how…Emily's so powerful…"

"Apparently, Grey found a weakness."

"What is it?"

"More like 'who'.  His name's Dominick.  Ring any bells?"

She shook her head.  "Not really."

"Well, he was her sire—and her lover."

"I still don't—"

"Apparently, this Dominick is 'gifted'—like Drusilla, only much more powerful."

"You mean he's psychic?"

Angel nodded.  "And he can control minds.  They were using him to find her—kind of like a bloodhound.  He'd go from city to city, searching her out.  If he got near enough, he'd be able to sense her.  Eventually, he came here—to L.A."

"But why would he help Grey find and destroy Emily?  He's a vampire.  Evil.  Remember?"

Angel flinched again, this time at the word 'evil.'  "Not all vampires are—"

"Oh, so you're saying he has a soul?  So he's a good guy like you?"

"Not exactly.  He's more like how Spike was…before he became human again."

"You mean he has a chip?"

"Yeah, apparently, this Grey is some kind of a computer genius.  He managed to tap into the technology that the Initiative used in their demon experiments—like the one performed on Spike."

"But how?"

Angel shrugged.  "The guy's rich.  He's got connections.  I don't know exactly."

"Oh."

"Anyway, they were using Dominick to locate Emily, and they succeeded…only, he disappeared a few days ago."

"So…"

"So, I'm thinking, maybe those ashes we saw back in Emily's bedroom weren't Emily's.  Maybe they were someone else's—"

"You mean Dominick's?"

"Precisely."

"So, you think Emily's still alive?"

"I think it's a definite possibility."

* * *

Spike stood in the corner, watching.  He'd been curled up on the bed next to the Slayer when Angel came into the room.  The bloody vampire had nearly sat on him!  And now, there was Angel, chatting away with Buffy.  Oh, what were they talking about?  He was too jealous to listen.   From the moment Buffy had reached for Angel's hand and held it firmly in her own, Spike had felt the blood boiling up inside of him.  Of course, he didn't have any blood—any more.  But, that was beside the point!  He was jealous with a capital "J".

He could read the body language between the two.  Buffy had started off looking aloof, but she had warmed.  Getting warmer.  And now—his eyes narrowed—even warmer.

She was talking quickly.  Her hands making tiny gestures.  Her eyes were bright now—gleaming.

* * *

Angel took a deep breath.  "Now, Buffy, I don't want you to get your hopes up…this may not lead us to Spike…"

"But if Emily's alive, she can help us!  She'll know what's happened to Spike.  She'll bring him back!  She's done it before, don't you see?  She can do it again!"

"That's if she really _is_ alive.  We're just assuming at this point."

"I know, but if she is…" She threw her arms around the vampire's neck.  "Thank-you, Angel," she said, her voice now filled with hope.  "I could kiss you!  I could just…"

She pulled away from him, holding him at arms length.  Angel studied her face as a look of uncertainty crossed over her features.

"I could kiss—" she began again, but before she could finish, he'd swooped down, acting on impulse and over three years of longing.  In a moment of weakness, Angel gave in to the feelings he'd been fighting for so long.  He kissed her.

* * *

Spike's narrowed eyes, widened, then bulged.  

_What the…_

His worst fear—one that had been haunting him ever since he'd fallen for the Slayer—was now right before him.  Angel held the Slayer tight, one arm around her waist, the other caressing her cheek.  And they were macking.

_No!_

Without thinking, he sprang from his corner, leaping right at Angel.  

As ghost collided with vampire, something unexpected happened.  Spike was overwhelmed by—feelings.  He could touch again!  Suddenly, he was caressing Buffy's smooth skin, holding her close; his lips crushing against hers.  But she pulled away from him without warning.

"No," he said in a voice that wasn't his.  "Buffy, I—"

But she cut him off with a slap so hard it left his cheek burning.

* * *

Angel felt the slap, saw the look on Buffy's face, and heard the voice that was his—only it wasn't.  He tried to move, raise his arm.  He tried to speak.  But he couldn't.  _Buffy, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to—_

His mouth opened and someone else's words came out.  "Buffy, listen to me. "

Her eyes shone with tears of anger and betrayal.  "How could you?" she asked, her teeth clenched.

"Buffy," said his voice, sounding strange and urgent.  "It's me—"

"I trusted you!"

"Pet, listen…it's _me_."

Her eyes widened and she stared at the man in front of her.  "Spike?"

_Spike!_  With the realization, Angel fought harder for control of his body.  _I will not let you—  _He struggled; willed himself to take back what was his, but it was no use. 

"Is it really you?" Buffy asked, reaching up to stroke the cheek she'd just slapped.

Angel felt himself lean into her touch, felt himself shudder.  "It's me."

"But what's happened to you?  How did you…?"

"I'm not sure," his voice replied. "One minute I was sitting there talking to you and the next, I'm a ghost, a spirit of some sort.  Maybe I died, but I don't know how."

"And Angel?  What have you done to him?" 

"I don't know that either.  I, uh, saw him making the moves on you.  So I went right at him…and then this happens."

Buffy held his face in both hands and stared at him, searching.  His head dipped down, lower, lower, until their lips touched.  Soft, furtive, tender.  Angel felt an ache deep inside of him as he experienced what he had longed for.  Only it wasn't.  Not really.  He felt his arms envelope her, felt her heart beating, her pulse quickening.  "I thought I'd never touch you again," the voice murmured in her ear.  There was a low growling sound from deep in his throat and the rush of dead blood down his body, signaling his arousal. His hand pressed against the small of her back, drawing her closer.

Buffy pulled away.  "We can't," she said, searching his face, looking deep into his eyes for a trace of the body's true owner.  "What if—"

And then he kissed her again, harder this time.  Silencing her.  

_No!_  

Angel panicked and fought back one last time as he felt his body pressing down on Buffy's; felt her yielding to his weight, lying back onto the mattress.  

_Please don't! _

But his cries went unheard as skilful, knowing hands found their way under the cotton nightgown seeking, seeking, then pausing in all the right places.  They made her gasp then sigh.

_Please!_

She was now fumbling at the front of his shirt, undoing the buttons.  He felt the fabric tear off of him.  Her hands splayed out over his chest, then went lower, to his belt.  The leather strip slid away, and the buckle rattled as it hit the floor.

_Don't!_

With an impatient roughness, she shoved his pants down.  He felt her grabbing him, guiding him.  This was not the Buffy he knew.  This was not—

And then suddenly, he was inside of her.  Her heat warmed his cool body and he began thrusting, deeper and deeper; he felt a tingling from the friction caused by his skin sliding against her skin, again and again.  He'd stopped resisting and had to wonder, were these his actions or Spike's?  He didn't know anymore.  He let the sensations take over—both new and familiar.  He'd been with Buffy once before.  But at the price of his soul!  And now, what would be the cost?  He stared into the face of the woman who had once brought him a moment of pure happiness, the woman he'd once loved.  She stared back at him, her eyes soft and glazed, seeing but unseeing.

"I love you," she murmured, lowering her lids, smiling.

He felt a pain then, mixed with the pleasure.  Long ago, he'd tried to run from her and the hurt she'd caused him.  He thought he was saving them both.  But he now realized he'd been wrong.  He shouldn't have left.  Instead, he should've searched for a way to make their love work.  But he hadn't.  He'd made a mistake and now it was too late.

_Oh, Buffy._  The biggest mistake of his life.  _I love you too._


	14. Afterglow

Chapter 14 – Afterglow

His face loomed just inches above hers.  Dark eyes bore through her, shocking her consciousness and waking the voice of reason that had previously been silenced.  Through the numbing, pleasure-induced fog, it spoke.  

_Look at him!  It's… _

She squinted up at him, uncertainty creeping in.  

_Angel?_

But before her inner protests could continue, his face descended, dipping out of view; his lips grazed her ear, and he whispered, "Slayer."  Cool breath tickled her neck, making her shiver beneath him.  She concentrated on his movements, which were slow, urgent and oh so familiar.  Not Angel.  Spike.

Closing her eyes, she quieted the doubts that were swimming inside of her.  

_Don't think.  Just feel...  _

Nothing mattered except this moment, which they'd stolen—along with Angel's body.  And when it was over, she knew reason would prevail and there wouldn't be another chance.  

_So, just feel…_

He was kissing her lips now; his mouth demanding and hard, his tongue searching.

Her fingers dug into his back as she clung to him; only breaking the kiss to tell him that she loved him.

He murmured his response; unintelligible, yet clear. She could tell he was getting close, but she didn't want this to end.  

_Slow down!_  _Didn't he know…?_  

But his movements quickened and his muscles tensed, signaling his inevitable release.  Her breathing was now shallow, a gasp with every push as he drove deeper.  Her body tingled, tightening.

And then a last breath, a sigh.  

He crumpled beside her, one arm lazily strewn over her stomach, his hand around her waist.  She remained still for a moment, savoring the pulsing warmth deep within her; a smile on her lips.  So perfect.  She so wanted to hold on to this moment; tuck it away in a little box.  But it was already fading.  Growing cold.   It was time to wake up.  She opened her eyes to see him lying beside her, his face nuzzled against her shoulder.  Her gaze raked down his body, his broad shoulders, his dark hair.  The seed of panic took root, growing quickly like a common weed.__

What had they done?  What if Angel…?  But it was unthinkable.

"Oh my God," she whispered.

 * * *

"What is it, pet?" Spike asked, sitting up.  He looked down at the Slayer and smoothed her hair with a loving hand.

Buffy gazed up at him, eyes filled with horror and shame.  "Spike, what have we done?"

He smiled in response.  "What we're best at," he replied, sounding almost smug.  He gave her a smoldering look.  "Maybe we could—"

"No," she rolled away, escaping his touch.  His hand lingered in the air for a moment, then sought her shoulder.

"Buffy—"

She shrugged his hand off, then rose to a sitting position, legs hanging over the bed, feet just touching the floor.  "I can't…look at you," she said finally.  "At him."

"But—"

She wrapped the sheet around her and walked to the window.  "Don't you see?" she asked, staring down at the streets below, now striped with shadows cast by the low morning sun. 

He shook his head.  "See what, luv?"

She pressed a hand against the glass, then leaned her forehead against it.  "Angel," she whispered. "What if he…?  But he has to be…in there, somewhere…watching me…us…"  She turned to him.  "Don't you think?"

He looked at her, frowning.  "No, I—" Absently, he glanced at the dresser mirror on the opposite wall and started at the sight of the empty bed.  A bed that curved down in the middle where he sat.

She followed his gaze to the mirror and nodded.  "We were selfish—and stupid."

Spike scowled, getting his composure back.  "You don't _know_…" he began.  "I mean, I don't think Angel's in here.  Wouldn't I feel him if he were?"  He made a fist and rapped his knuckles against his skull.  "Hey, peaches, you in here?"  He waited for a couple of seconds, then shrugged.  "Nothing.  See?  Maybe, I kicked him out somehow.  Or maybe he's hovering about in the air somewhere."  He glanced up at the ceiling.

Buffy's eyes narrowed.  "Oh, and that would be better!" she said sounding bitter.  "Having him floating above us when we were…"

"No.  Of course it wouldn't," Spike said, now irritated.  He stood up, nude, glanced down and paused.  Normally, he would've pranced around the room stark naked for all he cared, but he wasn't about to go flaunting Angel's assets in front of Buffy.  So instead, he snatched the bedspread up off the floor and wrapped it around his torso, approaching her with leaded feet.  She was staring at him, but her face was filled with too many emotions to read.  Finally, standing a foot in front of her, his eyes caught hers.  "Buffy, I don't know what else to say.  Would I take it back?  Would I prefer not touching you again?"  He shook his head.  "No, of course not.  I understand what you're feeling.  I do.  You're looking at me, and you see Angel.  I don't like it any more than you do, but…it's done."  He caressed her cheek, then caught her chin in his fingertips, tilting her face up toward his.  "And I'd do it again."

He leaned in to kiss her, but she turned away.  "Don't," she whispered.

He took a step back, shaking his head.  "But what would you have me do then?  Fly away, like a good little ghost?"

She blinked back tears.  "No.  There's got to be a way.  Emily.  Maybe she…"

"But Em's gone, pet."  His voice was tender.

"She may not be!" she insisted with a hint of desperation.  "Angel…He thinks she may still be alive!"

Spike's eyes widened with surprise.  "Does he?  But where is she then?  And how does he—"

"It's just a hunch, but he thinks that the ashes we found may not have been hers.  The Council sent another vampire after her—to hunt her down.  Angel found his coat in her closet.  The ashes may have been his, or even just a cover."

"This other vampire…"

"Angel said his name was Dominic."

"Emily's sire."

Buffy nodded.

"But why would he—"

"He was working for the Council, for Hope Mason's Watcher."

"Yeah, I know the guy.  Met him last year.  What was his name now?"

* * *

 "Cameron."

She'd finally reached him.  After leaving several messages at the inn where he was staying, she'd decided to try his cell phone again.  It had been turned off earlier, due to his being in conferences all day, but this time it rang—and he answered.

"Faith?"  Just her name, but he sounded pleased to hear from her.  She felt her chest tighten, just slightly.  She didn't know why.

"Yeah, it's me," she said, stomach fluttering.  Maybe she was coming down with something.  There was an awkward silence.  For some strange reason, she felt tongue-tied, sitting on his comfortable bed, in his luxury, New York apartment.  You would've thought he was right next to her, instead of thousands of miles away.

"Faith?  Is there something wrong?" he asked, concern in his voice.

"No," she answered quickly, "it's just…Dominic's gone missing."

"Again?"  Now he sounded annoyed.  "He knows that chip in his head will—"

"I think it's different this time…"

* * *

While toying with his drink, Giles eyed the young Watcher sitting across from him.  The bar was almost empty, save for the two of them and several locals carousing in the back.  Grey was on his cell phone, gesturing with his free hand as he spoke.  

Giles knew Faith was on the other end of that line.  He'd heard Grey say her name, and it had immediately caught his attention.  The younger man had hinted at his attraction to the Slayer the previous night, and Giles wasn't sure if he approved.  He knew Grey had a history with women; many histories, and many women.  Grey had looks, money, and charm, and didn't mind using them to his advantage.

Giles couldn't help but feel protective over the Slayer the Council had discarded and believed dead.  But as he sat there, ears pricked, playing the disapproving parent, he became aware that there something going on with the handsome Watcher.  And it had nothing to do with his interest in Faith.  Sitting perfectly still, Giles listened.

"We're close," Grey said, sounding excited.  "I need to call Travers."  There was a long pause. 

"I know…I know.  You don't trust him," Grey continued.  "You've told me before.

"This has been set up for almost a year now.

"You need to inform Hope. She'll know what to do.

"She _is _ready.

"No.  You can't be involved with this.  It's too risky.

"Everything will be fine.  Just trust me."

Grey glanced at Giles uncertainly.  "I've got to go," he said, then closed the cell phone.

There was an uncomfortable silence between the two men, which lasted for several seconds before Giles finally broke it.

"What's going on?"


	15. Deception

Chapter 15 – Deception

A/N – A big apology for taking over two months to post this latest chapter.  Excuses?  The usual, I guess.  Busy, tired, uninspired…just plain blah.  Anyway, thanks to those of you who're still following this story and have left reviews.  They help, believe me, they do!  Now, at long last…chapter 15.  Enjoy!

"Cameron?"

Giles studied the younger watcher, and waited for his response.  But Grey remained silent, looking back at him with indecision in his eyes.  

"I suppose," Grey said finally, "that I should fill you in on our little mission."  

Nodding, Giles leaned forward over the table.  "Yes, do tell."

Still looking uncertain, Grey sighed, then settled back in his seat.  "Well," he began, "nearly a year ago, Quentin Travers approached me about a special project he was working on.  Actually, I'd say it was more of a vendetta where he was concerned, for he was hell-bent on finding this woman, or rather monster would be a better term for her.  She had already eluded him and a team of our finest people once, and he informed me of the urgency in locating her.  She possesses considerable power, and knowledge of the Council.  She's—"

"Emily Pierce," Giles cut in abruptly.

Grey's eyes flashed surprise.  "Yes," he said.  "How did you…?  
  


"I've heard rumors floating around headquarters about Quentin having something in the works," Giles explained, "but I had no idea who was involved."

Grey bowed slightly.  "Guilty as charged," he said with a grim smile.

The older Watcher shook his head.  "Quentin's an arrogant fool," he muttered, "do you have any idea what this woman is capable of?"

Grey shrugged.  "I've read the file."

"And she's a hundred times more dangerous."

Grey seemed unfazed.  "Quentin has put the coven in Devon at my disposal…and a squad of our finest men.  He let me handpick my team.  And of course, I'll have Hope…"

"And Faith?"

"We won't be needing her," Grey answered hastily.  "She'll be safe, if that's what you're worried about.  I've specifically told her—"

Giles shook his head.  "That counts for nothing with Faith.  Obviously, you don't know her as well as you think you do."

Grey frowned.  "She wouldn't—"

"Whatever lead you've found," Giles said, his tone intentionally ominous, "I'd drop.  Give up your search now.  This woman, Emily, is more dangerous when threatened.  Believe me, it's best to leave her alone."

Grey's eyes narrowed, suddenly skeptical.  "Why are you protecting her, Rupert?"

Giles looked back, his face grim.  "It's not _her_ I'm protecting."

* * *

They stood a safe distance from the window, watching as gray tinged clouds rushed to keep pace with and effectively shroud the sun as it made its way upward.  Spike held the Slayer close, her back against his chest, his arms wrapped possessively around her upper body.  

"If Em's alive, I'll find her," he said, grazing her hair with his lips as he spoke.

Buffy swiveled to face him.  "But how?" she asked, looking puzzled.  "A location spell, maybe?"

He shook his head.  "No, Em's already got some kind of mojo going to block those." His mouth pursed into a quick smile.  "Actually, I've another idea in mind."

"What is it?"

His smile deepened.  "Same thing I did to find you, luv," he said.  "I'm a ghost, you see.  And because of that, I can go wherever I wish…wherever I whim."

Buffy frowned.  "I don't—"

"Shh, pet.  Don't worry, you'll see," he said, now lifting his hand up to her face to caress her cheek.  "I'm gonna have to go away for a bit.  Leave you."

Sighing, he slowly pulled away from her, and turned his attentions to the floor, searching for the clothes that they'd carelessly strewn about the room.  He snatched up Buffy's cotton nightgown, and handed it to her, then reached for his pants. 

"Now," he said gently, "you're gonna have some explaining to do after I'm gone."  His tone sounded light, but his eyes were filled with concern.  "Angel's gonna know that we mice have been playing with his er, balls of yarn, while he's been away."  He held up the vampire's shirt.  "See?  Clothes all rumpled, a few buttons missing…"  He sniffed the air a couple of times.  "And your smell…  I could take a dozen showers, and he'd still know."

"But, what…" she began, eyes wide with alarm.  "What should I tell him?  How can I possibly explain…what happened?"

Spike let out a sharp breath and looked at her with concern.  "Just tell him it was my fault," he said.  "Blame's on me.  And it is."  He stood in front of her now, stroking her hair, a pained expression on his face.  "God, it kills me to leave you like this.  If there were another way…"

"No," she whispered, looking up at him with resignation.  "You have to find Emily. She's our best hope."

Spike then leaned forward and kissed her with uncharacteristic restraint.  "I'll be back," he promised, trying to sound confident.

Buffy stared up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears, and nodded.

"Well, here goes nothing…"  Taking a deep breath, Spike closed his eyes, mumbling, "Emily…Emily…Emily…Where are you, Emily?"

He felt the air around him begin to swirl; at first a mild breeze, it quickly became a frenzied gale.  He felt it tug at him, pulling from his stolen body.  Away and upwards.  Within seconds, he was gone.

* * *

Buffy stood in the middle of the tiny room, covering herself with the worn bedspread, shivering as the winds died down.

She stared at the man before her as he staggered back, falling onto the bed; eyes open wide, mouth agape.  His face seemed to go blank, and then he looked at her with seeming recognition mixed with alarm.

"Angel?"

She hesitated, then rushed to his side.  Sitting next to him on the bed, gripping his hand in hers, she studied his face for any trace, any sign...that he knew, that he'd experienced…what they'd done.

But there wasn't any.

He looked stunned and confused, and totally oblivious.

She squeezed his hand and gazed at him with concern.  "Angel, are you okay?"

"I…" he began slowly, then averted his eyes from hers.  "I feel…kind of fuzzy.  Disoriented."  He glanced at the window, at the morning light shining through.  "What…happened to me?"

Buffy took a deep breath before answering.  He didn't seem to know…anything.  She opened her mouth to explain, but found that she was speechless.  How could she tell Angel what they'd done?    

"Buffy?"  He glanced down at his rumpled and torn clothes, then glanced back at her, his look questioning.

* * *

It felt strange to be back; to be in control.  Angel rose suddenly off the bed and took two quick strides toward the window, stopping short of the sun's rays streaming into the room.  And control wasn't such an easy thing to maintain.  Not when Buffy had been sitting beside him—so close—on the bed.  Not when her scent was all over him.  

She looked at him with surprise, her brown eyes large and worried.  "Angel, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he replied.  "I just feel strange.  Maybe I should take a walk or something."

"But it's day," she countered.

"Then I'll do the 'or something,'" he snapped back, suddenly annoyed. __

Buffy rose from the bed, but maintained her distance, standing several feet away from him.  "I know you're wondering what happened.  And why you…"

"Smell like you?"  Although he hadn't intended it to, it came out sounding like a jab.

Buffy looked away uncomfortably.  "Well, yeah…"

"And why my clothes look a little worse for the wear?"  His tone was almost accusing, and he felt his anger rising. 

'_Don't!'_ a voice inside of him warned.  _'Don't let your emotions betray you.'_

Buffy turned back toward him, but her eyes were lowered. "That too…" she mumbled.

Of course Angel knew all too well what had happened, but he wasn't about to tell her.  After all, under the circumstances, wasn't lying a kindness?  

_Always thinking about others, aren't you?_  

"Buffy," he said finally, straining to sound calm, "I don't—"

But she interrupted him.

"It was Spike!" she said hurriedly, a guilty look on her face.  "Angel, I'm so sorry.  We…I mean…he's, Spike's a ghost, you see?  A spirit.  Somehow, he possessed your body.  He didn't mean to, and I don't know how it happened exactly, but I, I mean we—"

But he'd let her ramble long enough.  Holding up his hand, Angel silenced her.  "Please," he said, his voice shaking; he struggled for control.  "I don't want to know.  I just…"  He glanced away, before she could see the pain in his face.  He turned to the door.  "…want to get out of here."

Then in several long strides, he passed her.  And his feet kept going; down the hall, up the stairs, and to his room where he closed the door and wearily leaned against it.

Eyes shut and fists clenched, he tried to block the images that were now flooding his mind.   What they'd done.  He could still feel them.  Feel her.  The woman he loved, but couldn't have.  Wounds that had almost healed were now fresh again.  The pain was back, worse than ever.

But he had to think on the bright side, right?  _And that would be…?_

Well…at least he still had his soul.


End file.
